I didn’t like to scold him when he was feeling bad anyhow, but business is business.  So I asked him how long he thought people would stay if he acted as he had that day.  I said that a sanatorium was a place where the man who runs it can’t afford to have likes and dislikes; that for my part I’d a good deal rather he’d get rid of his excitement by shooting off a gun, provided he pointed it away from the house, than to sit around and let his mind explode and kill all our prospects.  I told him, too, to remember that he wasn’t responsible for the morals or actions of his guests, only for their health.

“Health!” he echoed, and kicked a chair.  “Health!  Why, if I wanted to keep a good dog in condition, Minnie, I wouldn’t bring him here.”

“No,” I retorted, “you’d shut him in an old out oven, and give him a shoe to chew, and he’d come out in three days frisking and happy.  But you can’t do that with people.”

“Why not?” he asked.  “Although, of course, the supply of out ovens and old shoes is limited here.”

“As far as Mr. von Inwald goes,” I went on, “that’s not your affair or mine.  If Miss Patty’s own father can’t prevent it, why should you worry about it?”

“Precisely,” he agreed.  “Why should I?  But I do, Minnie—­that’s the devil of it.”

“There are plenty of nice girls,” I suggested, feeling rather sorry for him.

“Are there?  Oh, I dare say.”  He stooped and picked up his rabbit.  “Straight through the head; not so bad for twilight.  Poor little chap!”

He said good night and went out, taking the gun and the rabbit with him, and I went into the pantry to finish straightening things for the night.  In a few minutes I heard voices in the other room, one Mr. Pierce’s, and one with a strong German accent.

“When was that?” Mr. von Inwald’s voice.

“A year ago, in Vienna.”

“Where?”

“At the Bal Tabarin.  You were in a loge.  The man I was with told me who the woman was.  It was she, I think, who suggested that you lean over the rail—­”

“Ah, so!” said Mr. von Inwald as if he just remembered.  “Ah, yes, I recall—­I was with—­the lady was red-haired, is it not?  And it was she who desired me—­”

“You leaned over the rail and poured a glass of wine on my head.  It was very funny.  The lady was charmed.”

“I recall it perfectly.  I remember that I did it under protest—­it was a very fine wine, and expensive.”

“Then you also recall,” said Mr. Pierce, very quietly, “that because you were with a—­well, because you were with a woman, I could not return your compliment.  But I demanded the privilege at some future date when you were alone.”

“It is a pity,” replied Mr. von Inwald, “that now, when I am alone, there is no wine!”

“No, there is no wine,” Mr. Pierce agreed slowly, “but there is—­”

I opened the door at that, and both of them started.  Mr. von Inwald was standing with his arms folded, and Mr. Pierce had one arm raised holding up a glass of spring water.  In another second it would have been in the other man’s face.