"Ah! the Mademoiselle is so practical," murmured the harpist again.
"Be quick," commanded Ruth, for although she had a strong repugnance for the fellow there was no reason why she should fear him, with so many people within call. "State your reason for stopping me, sir."
"The Mademoiselle is from the school—the institute where learning is taught the lo-fe-ly Misses?"
He thus made three syllables of "lovely" and Ruth knew that he leered like a Billiken in the dark.
"I am at Briarwood Hall—yes," she said.
"I have seen the kind Mademoiselle before," said the man. "On the boat on that other so-beeg lake—Osago, is it?"
"On the Lanawaxa—yes," admitted Ruth.
"Ah! I am proud. The Mademoiselle remember me," he exclaimed, bowing in the dark alley.
"Go on," urged Ruth, impatiently.
"It is of the leetle lady—Mademoiselle Picolet—I would speak," he said, more quickly.
"Our French teacher—yes."
"Then, knowing her, will the Mademoiselle take a small note from the poor musician to the good Picolet? 'Tis a small matter—no?"
"You want me to do this without telling anybody about it?" questioned Ruth, bluntly.
