“I should think you might have been.  What sort of creature was he, for goodness sakes?”

“Oh, he was an Arab camel driver.  A very good man, too.”

“Yes, he must have been.  Did you get your shirt back?”

“No—­ah—­no.  The fact is, he had put it on and—­as he was rather—­ well, soiled, so to speak, I let him keep it.  And he really was a very good man, I mean a good camel driver.”

Miss Martha regarded her guest thoughtfully.

“Where did you say this was, Mr. Bangs?”

“In the Abyssinian desert.  We were there at the time.”

“Abyssinia?  Abyssinia?  That’s in Africa, isn’t it?”

“Yes, northern Africa.”

“Mercy me, that’s a long way off.”

“Oh, not so very, when one becomes accustomed to the journey.  The first time I found it rather tiring, but not afterward.”

“Not afterward.  You mean you’ve been there more than once?”

“Yes—­ah—­yes.  Three times.”

“But why in the world do you go to such an outlandish place as that three times?”

“Oh, on research work, connected with my—­ah—­profession.  There are some very interesting remains in that section.”

“What did you say your business—­your profession was, Mr. Bangs?”

“I am an archaeologist, Miss Phipps.”

“Oh!”

He went to his room soon afterwards.  Martha went into the dining room.  A suspicious rustle as she turned the door knob caused her to frown.  Primmie was seated close to the wall on the opposite side of the room industriously peeling apples.  Her mistress regarded her intently, a regard which caused its object to squirm in her chair.

“It’s—­it’s a kind of nice night, ain’t it, Miss Martha?” she observed.

Miss Martha did not answer.  “Primmie Cash,” she said, severely, “you’ve been listen in’ again.  Don’t deny it.”

“Now—­now Miss Martha, I didn’t mean to, really, but—­”

“Do you want to go back to the Mashpaug poorhouse again?”

“No’m.  You know I don’t, Miss Martha.  I didn’t mean to do it, but I heard him talkin’ and it was so interestin’.  That about the camel stealin’ his shirt—­my soul!  And—­”

“If you listen again I will send you back; I mean it.”

“I won’t, ma’am.  I won’t.  Now—­”

“Be still.  Where is our dictionary?  It isn’t in the closet with the other books where it ought to be.  Do you know where it is?”

“No’m. . . .  Yes’m, come to think of it, I do.  Lulie Hallet borrowed it the other day.  Her and Zach Bloomer was havin’ a lot of talk about how to spell somethin’ and Lulie she got our dictionary so’s to settle it—­and Zach.  I’ll fetch it back to-morrow mornin’. . . .  But what do you want the dictionary for, Miss Martha?”

Martha shook her head, with the air of one annoyed by a puzzle the answer to which should be familiar.