When Kemper and I had seated ourselves, I calmly cut short the small talk in which he was already indulging, and to which, I am sorry to say, my pretty waitress was beginning to respond. I had scarcely thought it of her--but that's neither here nor there--and I invited her to recapitulate the circumstances which had resulted in our present foregathering here on this strip of coral in the Atlantic Ocean. She did so very modestly and without embarrassment, stating the case and reviewing the evidence so clearly and so simply that I could see how every word she uttered was not only amazing but also convincing Kemper. When she had ended he asked a few questions very seriously: "Granted," he said, "that the pituitary gland represents what we assume it represents, how much faith is to be placed in the testimony of a Seminole Indian?" "A Seminole Indian," she replied, "has seldom or never been known to lie. And where a whole tribe testify alike the truth of what they assert can not be questioned." "How did you make them talk? They are a sullen, suspicious people, haughty, uncommunicative, seldom even replying to an ordinary question from a white man." "They consider me one of them." "Why?" he asked in surprise. "I'll tell you why. It came about through a mere accident. I was waitress at the hotel; it happened to be my afternoon off; so I went down to the coquina dock to study. I study in my leisure moments, because I wish to fit myself for a college examination." Her charming face became serious; she picked up the hem of her apron and continued to pleat it slowly and with precision as she talked: "There was a Seminole named Tiger-tail sitting there, his feet dangling above his moored canoe, evidently waiting for the tide to turn before he went out to spear crayfish. I merely noticed he was sitting there in the sunshine, that's all. And then I opened my mythology book and turned to the story of Argus, on which I was reading up. "And this is what happened: there was a picture of the death of Argus, facing the printed page which I was reading--the well-known picture where Juno is holding the head of the decapitated monster--and I had read scarcely a dozen words in the book before the Seminole beside me leaned over and placed his forefinger squarely upon the head of Argus. "'Who?' he demanded. "I looked around good-humoredly and was surprised at the evident excitement of the Indian. They're not excitable, you know. "'That,' said I, 'is a Greek gentleman named Argus.' I suppose he thought I meant a Minorcan, for he nodded. Then, without further comment, he placed his finger on Juno. "'_Who?_' he inquired emphatically. "I said flippantly: 'Oh, that's only my aunt, Juno.' "'Aunty of you?' "'Yes.' "'She kill 'um Three-eye?' "Argus had been depicted with three eyes. "'Yes,' I said, 'my Aunt Juno had Argus killed.' "'Why kill 'um?'