“It isn’t, miss,” said the young man, in a form of address, the semi-servility of which seemed distinctly out of tone with the quietly clear and assured voice. “It’s the insects.” “The what?” “The bugs, miss.” He extracted from his pocket a slip of paper, looked from it to the numbered door, as one verifying an address, and handed it to her. “From yesterday’s copy of the Banner, miss. You’re not going back on that, surely,” he said somewhat reproachfully. She read, and as she read her eyes widened to lakes of limpid brown. Then they crinkled at the corners, and her laugh rose from the mid-tone contralto, to a high, bird-like trill of joyousness. The infection of it tugged at the young man’s throat, but he successfully preserved his mask of flat and respectful dullness. “It must have been Uncle,” she gasped finally. “He said he’d be quits with the real estate agent before he left. How perfectly absurd! And are those the creatures in that box?” “The first couple of hundred of ’em, miss.” “Two hundred!” Again the access of laughter swelled the rounded bosom as the breeze fills a sail. “Where did you get them?” “Woodpile, ash-heap, garbage-pail,” said the young man stolidly. “Any particular kind preferred, Miss Ackroyd?” The girl looked at him with suspicion, but his face was blankly innocent. “I’m not Miss Ackroyd,” she began with emphasis, when a querulous voice from an inner room called out: “Whom are you talking to, Sylvia?” “A young man with a boxful of beetles,” returned the girl, adding in brisk French: “_Il est tres amusant ce farceur. Je ne le comprends pas du tout. Cest une blague, peut-être. Si on l’invitait dans la maison pour un moment?_” Through one of the air-holes, considerately punched in the cardboard cover of the box, a sturdy crawler had succeeded in pushing himself. He was, in the main, of a shiny and well-groomed black, but two large patches of crimson gave him the festive appearance of being garbed in a brilliant sash. As he stood rubbing his fore-legs together in self-congratulation over his exploit, his bearer addressed him in French quite as ready as the girl’s: “_Permettez-moi, Monsieur le Coléoptère, de vous presenter mes excuses pour cette demoiselle qui s’exprime en langue étrangère chez elle._” “Don’t apologize to the beetle on my account,” retorted the girl with spirit. “You’re here on your own terms, you know, both of you.” Average Jones mutely held up the box in one hand and the advertisement in the other. The adventurer-bug flourished a farewell to the girl with his antennae, and retired within to advise his fellows of the charms of freedom. “Very well,” said the girl, in demure tones, though lambent mirth still flickered, golden, in the depths of the brown eyes. “If you persist, I can only suggest that you come back when Judge Ackroyd is here. You won’t find him particularly amenable to humor, particularly when perpetrated by a practical joker in masquerade.”