“I’ve done it,” he chimed in.  “Slept outdoors, I mean.  Last night, for instance.  I slept very snugly indeed, under a Traveler Tree in the gardens of the Royal Palm Hotel.  There was a dance at the hotel.  I went to sleep, under the stars, to the lullaby of a corking good orchestra.  The only drawback was that a spooning couple who were engineering a ’petting party,’ almost sat down on my head, there in the darkness.  Not that I’d have minded being a settee for them.  But they might have told one of the watchmen about my being there.  And I’d have had to hunt other sleeping quarters.”

She did not abate that look of quizzical appraisal.  And again Gavin Brice began to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

“You have an orange grove, back yonder, haven’t you?” he asked, abruptly, nodding toward a landward stretch of ground shut off from the lawn by a thickset hedge of oleander.

“How did you know?” she demanded in suspicion.  “By this light you couldn’t possibly see—­”

“Oddly enough,” he said, in the pleasant drawling voice she was learning to like in spite of her better judgment, “oddly enough, I was born with a serviceable pair of nostrils.  There is a scent of orange blossoms hanging fairly strong in the air.  It doesn’t come from the mangrove swamp behind me or from the highroad in front of your house or from the big garden patch to the south of the lawn.  So I made a Sherlock Holmes guess that it must be over there to northward, and pretty close.  Besides, that’s the only direction the Trade Winds could bring the scent from.”

Again, she was aware of a certain glibness in his tone,—­a glibness that annoyed her and at the same time piqued her curiosity.

“Yes,” she said, none too cordially.  “Our orange groves are there.  Why do you ask?”

“Only,” he replied, “because where there are large citrus groves on one side of a house and fairly big vegetable gardens on the other, it means the need for a good bit of labor.  And that may mean a chance for a job.  Or it may not.  You’ll pardon my suggesting it.

“My brother needs no more labor,” she replied.  “At least, I am quite certain he doesn’t.  In fact, he has more men working here now than he actually needs.  I—­I’ve heard him say so.  Of course, I’ll be glad to ask him, when he comes back from town.  And if you’d care to leave your address—­”

“Gladly,” said Brice.  “Any letter addressed to me, as ’Gavin Brice, in care of Traveler Tree, rear gardens of Royal Palm Hotel,’ will reach me.  Unless, of course, the night watchmen chance to root me out.  In that case, I’ll leave word with them where mail may be forwarded.  In the meantime, it’s getting pretty dark, and I don’t know this part of Dade County as well as I’d like to.  So I’ll be starting on.  If you don’t mind, I’ll cross your lawn, and take the main road.  It’s easier going, at night than by way of the mangrove swamp and the beach.  Good night, Miss—­”