"I didn't have to," he contradicted. "I let it go because I thought you were a good sport, and you wouldn't catch me backing out of your game, not by a good deal! But there's a darned sight,--pardon me, Mademoiselle!--there's too much company round here to suit me! _You_ know me, _you_ know you can trust me, Mademoiselle! But what about Tom, Dick and Harry all over this place--casting eyes at a man?" Agatha, almost against her will, was forced to meet his seriousness half-way. "I don't know what you mean," she said. "Tell 'em!" he burst out. "Tell 'em the whole story. Tell that blamed snoopin' manager that I'm a crook and a kidnapper, and then he'll stop nosing round after me. I'll have an hour's start, and that's all I want. Dogging a man--running him down under his own automobile!" Hand permitted himself a dry smile at his own joke, but immediately added, "It goes against the grain, Mademoiselle!" Agatha's face brightened, as she grasped the clue to Hand's wrath. "I've no doubt," she answered gravely. She knew the manager. "But why should I tell him, as you suggest?" "Why?" Hand stopped a moment, as if baffled at the difficulty of putting such obvious philosophy into words. "Why? Because that's the way people are--never satisfied till they uncover and root up every blamed thing in a man's life. Yes, Mademoiselle, you know it's true. They'll always be uneasy with me around." Agatha was aware that when a man utters what he considers to be a general truth, it is useless to enter the field of argument. "Suppose you do have 'an hour's start,' as you express it. Where would you go?" "Oh, I'll look about for a while. After that I'm going to Mr. Hambleton in Lynn. He's going to have a new car." "Ah!" Agatha suddenly saw light. "Then there's only one thing. Mr. Hambleton must know the truth. It can concern no one else. Will you tell him?" Mr. Hand produced his dry smile. "Nobody has to tell Mr. Hambleton anything. He looked straight into my face that day on the hill, as we were leaving the park." "And he remembers?" Something strange in Hand's expression arrested Agatha's attention, long before he found tongue to answer. It was a look of happiness and pride, as if he owned a treasure. "He remembers very well, Mademoiselle." "And what--?" "You can't help but be square with him, Mademoiselle. But as for these gentlemen of style--" Hand paused in his oratory, his slow anger again burning on the surface. Before Agatha knew what he was about, he had picked up the handkerchief from her lap between thumb and forefinger, and was holding it at arm's length. "You can't squeeze a man's history out of him, as you squeeze water out of a handkerchief, Mademoiselle," he flared out. "And you can't drop him and pick him up again, nor throw him down. You can't do that with a man, Mademoiselle!" He tossed the flimsy linen back into her lap. "And I don't want any dealings with your Strakers--nor gentlemen of that stamp."