"Of course it is! What do you think I am? A thief?" "Gracious, no! I never thought you were that!" Patty laughed. "But I do suspect you're up to some flirtation or affair of that sort, and I have a perfect right to inquire into the matter. Why didn't you let us meet your friends that day they called?" "I didn't suppose you would care to know them. They're not your sort." "Are they _your_ sort? Oh, Zaly, I thought you _wanted_ to be our 'sort,'--as you call it. You don't want to have friends Bill and I wouldn't approve of, do you?" "Oh,--I don't know _what_ I want! I wish you'd go 'way, and leave me alone!" "I will in a minute. Tell me your friends' names." "I won't." "Then I shall ask Ray Gale. He knows them,--he recognised them the day they were here, and you forbade him to tell me who they were." "Then if he knows them, isn't that enough to assure you of their respectability?" "It isn't a question of respectability,--I want to know why they are telephoning you,--not casually,--but apparently on some important matter." "That's _my_ business. Oh, Patty, let me alone!" Azalea was clearly overwrought, and in another moment would fly into an hysterical tantrum. But Patty made one more effort. "Just tell me the name," she said, gently. "Well--Smith. There, _now_ are you satisfied?" "I am not," said Patty, truthfully. "Good night, Azalea." She went thoughtfully away, and communicated to Bill the whole conversation. "She's a queer girl," Farnsworth remarked, after he had heard all about the afternoon telephoning. "Do you know, Patty, that letter which she pretended came from her father,--she wrote herself." "What?" "She did; and on my own typewriter,--here in our library." "What _do_ you mean?" "Just what I say. I knew it, the moment I saw it, for the writing on my machine is so familiar to me, I can recognise it instantly. The tail of the y doesn't print, and there are lots of little details that make it recognisable." "Are you sure, dear? I thought all typewriting was just alike." "Oh, no; it is as greatly differentiated, almost, as penwriting,--some experts think more so. I mean, it can't be forged successfully, and penwriting can. Well, anyhow, that letter Azalea showed me, as being from her father, was written on my machine. She had no envelope, for of course she couldn't reproduce the proper postmark on an envelope she had herself addressed." "But why,--what for? I don't understand."