She meekly embraced him, then his countenance cleared, and he vouchsafed her an explanation. "I just wanted to make sure of you, dear. This is a serious matter, and women's tongues are such delicate things that a secret trembles off them as if they were oiled. I've known a woman mad with another,--so mad that she'd vow to die rather than tell her a certain thing that would be to her interest to know, yet she'd run faster than a deer and tell her that very thing." "Some women are as safe as a bank," observed Mrs. White, mildly. "Yes, ma'am, and you're one of them. Listen now, till I make those plump ears of yours rustle with curiosity,--you see this newspaper?" "Yes, Micah." "I sent to Boston for it. What do you suppose I did that for?" "I don't know." "Do you remember seeing Derrice come in a week ago with some books wrapped up in a newspaper?" "No, Micah." "Well, she did, and I picked up the paper, and in that paper was a piece cut out." "Was there?" "Yes, and if there's one thing more than another that stirs the old Adam in me it is for a man to hand me a paper with a piece cut out." "But a man didn't hand you this, did he?" "No; but that don't matter. The piece was gone. I turned the paper over. I found written on it, 'Miss Chelda Gastonguay, Rossignol.' Now, what do you suppose was my next move?" "You tried to get another like it." "Precisely. You caught your fish that time. I sent to Boston for another copy of that same paper. Now, here's the ad. that was cut out. I've marked it with my pencil. Read it, Hippy." "'H. Robinson, private detective, 10 Smith Street, Boston. All communications strictly confidential. Secret and expeditious service.'" Mrs. White was in the dark, and without a word returned the newspaper to him. "Now, what does a young lady in Chelda Gastonguay's position want with a thing like that?" he asked, severely. "Perhaps she didn't want it." "She did. The paper was addressed to her. She cut the ad. out. I'll shift my ground a little, Hippy. What makes this same young lady come to this house so much?" "I'm sure I don't know," replied his wife, with some warmth. "She don't like me." "Does she come here to look at my lovely countenance?" His wife's face was a study. She tried not to express resentment, she tried to think graciously of the absent Chelda, but her effort was not crowned with success. "You feel just the least little bit mad with her, Hippy, don't you?" asked Captain White, kindly, "because she don't treat your husband as if he was king of this castle." Mrs. White did not speak, but her hand again encircled his arched and aristocratic instep, and this time she was not checked.