“Well, on’y t’ think them little hands cud ‘a’ done all that rough woik!”

The unintended viciousness of this retort produced an effect so marked, that, except for my growing uneasiness, I might have enjoyed her expression.

As it was, I saved her face by entering into the conversation with a question, which I put quickly: 

“You intend pursuing your historical researches in the neighborhood?”

The facial contortion which served him for a laugh, and at the same time as a symbol of unfathomable reserve, was repeated, accompanied by a jocose manifestation, in the nature of a sharp and taunting cackle, which seemed to indicate a conviction that he was getting much the best of it in some conflict of wits.

“Them fairy tales I handed you about ole Jeanne d’Arc and William the Conker,” he said, “say, they must ‘a’ made you sore after-WOIDS!”

“On the contrary, I was much interested in everything pertaining to your too brief visit,” I returned; “I am even more so now.”

“Well, m’friend”—­he shot me a sidelong, distrustful glance—­“keep yer eyes open.”

“That is just the point!” I laughed, with intentional significance, for I meant to make Mr. Percy talk as much as I could.  To this end, remembering that specimens of his kind are most indiscreet when carefully enraged, I added, simulating his own manner: 

“Eyes open—­and doors locked!  What?”

At this I heard a gasp of astonishment from Miss Elliott, who must have been puzzled indeed; but I was intent upon the other.  He proved perfectly capable of being insulted.

“I guess they ain’t much need o’ lockin’ your door,” he retorted darkly; “not from what I saw when I was in your studio!” He should have stopped there, for the hit was palpable and justified; but in his resentment he overdid it.  “You needn’t be scared of anybody’s cartin’ off them pitchers, young feller!  Whoosh!  An’ f’m the luks of the clo’es I saw hangin’ on the wall,” he continued, growing more nettled as I smiled cheerfully upon him, “I don’ b’lieve you gut any worries comin’ about them, neither!”

“I suppose our tastes are different,” I said, letting my smile broaden.  “There might be protection in that.”

His stare at me was protracted to an unseemly length before the sting of this remark reached him; it penetrated finally, however, and in his sharp change of posture there was a lightning flicker of the experienced boxer; but he checked the impulse, and took up the task of obliterating me in another way.

“As I tell the little dame here,” he said, pitching his voice higher and affecting the plaintive, “I make no passes at a friend o’ her—­not in front o’ her, anyways.  But when it comes to these here ole, ancient curiosities”—­he cackled again, loudly—­“well, I guess them clo’es I see, that day, kin hand it out t’ anything they got in the museums!  ‘Look here,’ I says to the waiter, ’these must be’n left over f’m ole Jeanne d’Arc herself,’ I says.  ‘Talk about yer relics,’ I says.  Whoosh!  I’d like t’ died!” He laughed violently, and concluded by turning upon me with a contemptuous flourish of his stick.  “You think I d’know what makes you so raw?”