"He's such an ordinary looking chap," began Mac. Bill laughed. "So am I," I retorted with a grin. "You know what I mean," he protested. "I meant ordinary in voice and general tone. But if what you say is true he must be a damn clever chap." "An artist," I agreed. "I can't make him out," said Bill, sewing busily. "What in the world has all this to do with his children? _I_ want to know where they met." "So you will, dear lady, never fear," I said, smiling. "I think Mr. Carville understands your desire perfectly." "Oh, I know I'm a very simple person----" she began. "By no means," I cried. "Mr. Carville would never suggest such a thing. But think for a moment! Is it not a fair guess that a man like our neighbour, who has had such a varied career, who can divine _my_ interest in him as an author, and Mac's as an artist, will be able to fathom the reason why you watch him with a tense and silent stare?" "Did I stare?" she said. "I'm sorry." "We all stared," I returned. "Anyone would." The telephone rang and Mac went to answer it. We could hear his voice plainly on the staircase. "Hello! Who is it? Oh, good evening, Miss Fraenkel--yes, do. We're not going out to-night. How long will you be? Right. Good-bye." "She'll be up in half an hour," he said, going back to his easel. I was by no means certain that Miss Fraenkel would be able to help us to forecast accurately the future instalments of the Carville history. Of course if we could induce her to assume that the painter-cousin's strange companion was Mr. Carville's brother, she might begin to treat the subject with the necessary seriousness. But I had no hope of this. I was too conscious of the extreme subtlety of Mr. Carville's art (we may grant him that now in advance) to think that we could transmit its fascination to Miss Fraenkel. She would probably be astonished at the continuance of our curiosity.