“I know, dad. It's wretchedly rude of me. But”—again she laughed—“you were such a funny, incongruous figure—running down the alley! In your proper English clothes—with your proper bowler hat—and that murderous knife in your hand! It's Oriental, isn't it?”
“Jane!” her father admonished again. “Where are your manners?”
The girl, who was small, but strong and full-bosomed, with a silken mesh of reddish gold hair tumbling over her forehead from beneath her tight-fitting toque, a large, generous mouth, an impertinent, retroussé nose, and deep-set, hazel brown eyes, winked the tiniest little wink at Hector as if to say: “We understand, you and I! We are both young! And it was funny! Come on! Own up to it!” while her father thanked Hector in dignified terms.
“I don't know what would have happened to us if it had not been for your timely succor,” he wound up, in an exact, slightly monotonous voice and carefully chosen phraseology which stamped him as a transatlantic visitor as surely as his sober worsted suit, the meticulous crease in his trousers, and his shoes.
Hector Wade did what any other young Englishman of his class, self-conscious, shy, proud, would have done. That is, he muttered some perfectly inane words about it not mattering—honestly!—it isn't worth fussin' about, you know!—and tried to make a graceful exit. Which was rather difficult considering that, in the embarrassment of the moment, he had forgotten all about the blade which was still in his
