"My young friend," said Bluelegs, slowly, "there's only one thing you can ask me in this place that I won't tell you, and that's my private opinion!" There was a little pause. Caroline, reveling in conspiracy, lay quiet, wondering who these people were and what they were talking about. "You are perfectly welcome to anything I know about Miss Aitken," Bluelegs continued, puffing at a fresh cigarette and throwing the old one through the lattice at Caroline's feet. "Her brother was a pronounced epileptic--died in a fit. I have seen the doctor's certificate. She was greatly worried over his death, and the manner of it, and showed signs of incipient melancholia." "As how?" interrupted Graycoat. "Don't know," said Bluelegs briefly. "Uncle said so. Wouldn't speak to anybody; cried all day; off her feed--that sort of thing. Very obstinate." "Um," Graycoat muttered thoughtfully, "so am I. But I'd hate to be shut up on that account." "So her uncle," proceeded Bluelegs, "wishing to save her, if possible, from her brother's fate, decided to--er--take steps in that direction and--and here she is." "So I see," said Graycoat. "Was the brother's epilepsy hereditary?" "I believe not," Bluelegs returned. "I believe the young gentlemen inherited a little too much a little too soon for his best good, and hit up a rather fast pace; his constitution wasn't the best." "Did she know about all this?" "I believe she did. Thought she might have saved him if she'd known sooner, her uncle said." "Ah," said Graycoat. "Why didn't this kind uncle put his nephew with the doctor?" "He wasn't his trustee," Bluelegs answered, quietly. "Dear me," said Graycoat gently, "how fortunate for the nephew!" "That's as you look at it," responded Bluelegs. Caroline dozed in the warm shade; in dreams she chased the French Queen around the iridescent fountain. "Uncle any business--besides trusteeship?" asked Graycoat. "You can search me," said Bluelegs. "Niece about twenty-one, I take it?" asked Graycoat. "Search me again," said Bluelegs. "Should you think," Graycoat demanded, after a pause, "that this incipient melancholia was likely to last long--speaking, of course, professionally?" "Really, Dr. Riggs, I don't know." Bluelegs replied. "I am not at all in touch with the case. The doctor has entire charge of it. He mentioned to me last week that he was sorry to see both in her and young Dahl evidences of clearly formed delusions--" "Young Dahl!" cried Graycoat, "why, the boy is an admitted paranoiac!" "Really?" said Bluelegs, "you know I don't do much but cocaine and morphia, these days. Did you know the doctor was going to print my pamphlet?" "He can afford it, I judge," growled Graycoat. "He gets a hundred a week from Miss Aitken." Bluelegs got up and sent a second cigarette after the first.