“My eyes,” he grunted.

“Basilisk eyes, I’m sure.  And what behind the eyes?”

“My thoughts.”

“You certainly keep them securely.  No intruders allowed.  But you haven’t answered my question.  Have you ever murdered any one in cold blood?  Or are you a married man trifling with the affections of poor little me?”

“You shall know all,” he began, in the leisurely tone of one who commences a long narrative.  “My parents were honest, but poor.  At the age of three years and four months, a maternal uncle, who, having been a proofreader of Abyssinian dialect stories for a ladies’ magazine, was considered a literary prophet, foretold that I—­”

“Help!  Wait!  Stop!—­

    “‘Oh, skip your dear uncle!’ the bellman exclaimed,
    And impatiently tinkled his bell.”

Her companion promptly capped her verse:—­

    “‘I skip forty years,’ said the baker in tears,”—­

“You can’t,” she objected.  “If you skipped half that, I don’t believe it would leave you much.”

“When one is giving one’s life history by request,” he began, with dignity, “interruptions—­”

“It isn’t by request,” she protested.  “I don’t want your life history.  I won’t have it!  You shan’t treat an unprotected and helpless stranger so.  Besides, I’m much more interested to know how you came to be familiar with Lewis Carroll.”

“Just because I’ve wasted my career on frivolous trifles like science, you needn’t think I’ve wholly neglected the true inwardness of life, as exemplified in ‘The Hunting of the Snark,’” he said gravely.

“Do you know”—­she leaned forward, searching his face—­“I believe you came out of that book yourself.  Are you a Boojum?  Will you, unless I ‘charm you with smiles and soap,’

      “’Softly and silently vanish away,
        And never be heard of again’?”

“You’re mixed.  You’d be the one to do that if I were a real Boojum.  And you’ll be doing it soon enough, anyway,” he concluded ruefully.

“So I shall, but don’t be too sure that I’ll ’never be heard of again.’”

He glanced up at the sun, which was edging behind a dark cloud, over the gap.

“Is your raging thirst for personal information sufficiently slaked?” he asked.  “We’ve still fifteen or twenty minutes left.”

“Is that all?  And I haven’t yet given you the message!” She drew it from the bag and handed it to him.

“Sealed,” he observed.

The girl colored painfully.

“Dad didn’t intend—­You mustn’t think—­” With a flash of generous wrath she tore the envelope open and held out the inclosure.  “But I shouldn’t have thought you so concerned with formalities,” she commented curiously.

“It isn’t that.  But in some respects, possibly important, it would be better if—­” He stopped, looking at her doubtfully.

“Read it,” she nodded.