Part 34 (1/2)

”Certainly,” said I, coldly. ”What's that got to do with it?”

”Nothing, I suppose,” said he resignedly.

I hesitated. ”Of course it is the work that upsets me. What are you driving at?”

He stared for a long time at the portrait of Ludwig the Red. ”Isn't it odd that the Countess, an American, should be descended from the old Rothhoefens? What a small world it is, after all!”

I became wary. ”Nothing odd about it to me. We've all got to descend from somebody.”

”I dare say. Still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle of her ances--”

”Not at all, not at all. It just happens to be a handy place. Perfectly natural.”

We lapsed into a prolonged spell of silence. I found myself watching him rather combatively, as who would antic.i.p.ate the move of an adversary.

”Perfect rot,” said I, at last, without rhyme or reason.

He grinned. ”Nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are,”

said he.

I sat up very straight. ”What's that?”

”You're in love,” said he succinctly. It was like a bomb, and a bomb is the very last thing in succinctness. It comes to the point without palaver or conjecture, and it reduces havoc to a single synonymous syllable.

”You're crazy!” I gasped.

”And the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it,” he p.r.o.nounced emphatically. It was a direct charge. I distinctly felt called upon to refute it. But while I was striving to collect my thoughts he went on, somewhat arbitrarily, I thought: ”You don't think we're all blind, do you, Mr. Smart?” ”We?” I murmured, a curious dampness a.s.sailing me.

”That is to say, Britton, the Schmicks and myself.”

”The Schmicks?” It was high time that I should laugh. ”Ha! ha! The Schmicks! Good Lord, man,--the _Schmicks_.” It sounded inane even to me, but, on my soul, it was all I could think of to say.

”The Schmicks are tickled to death over it,” said he. ”And so is Britton.”

Collecting all the sarcasm that I could command at the instant, I inquired: ”And you, Mr. p.o.o.pend.y.k.e,--are you not ticklish?”

”Very,” said he.

”Well, I'm not!” said I, savagely. ”What does all this nonsense mean.

Don't be an a.s.s, Fred.”

”Perhaps you don't know it, Mr. Smart, but you _are_ in love,” said he so convincingly that I was conscious of an abrupt sinking of the heart.

Good heavens! Was he right? Was there anything in this silly twaddle?

”You are quite mad about her.”

”The deuce you say!” I exclaimed, rather blankly.

”Oh, I've seen it coming. For that matter, so has she. It's as plain as the nose--”

I leaped to my feet, startled. ”She? You don't--Has she said anything that leads you to believe--Oh, the deuce! What rot!”