I wish you could see this Mrs. Wilson, Hal. You would change a whole lot

of your ideas. She is a thoroughbred, sure enough, and of course some

of her beauty is the result of the exquisite care about which you and

I--still from our Andean pinnacle--used to rant. But the fact is, she is

more than that. She has fire, and pluck, no end. If you could have seen

her this morning, standing in front of a cold kitchen range, determined

to conquer it, and had seen the tilt of her chin when I offered to take

over the cooking--you needn't grin; I can cook, and you know it--you

would understand what I mean. It was so clear that she was paralyzed

with fright at the idea of getting breakfast, and equally clear that

she meant to do it. By the way, I have learned that her name was McNair

before she married this would-be artist, Wilson, and that she is a

daughter of the McNair who financed the Callao branch!

I have not met the others so intimately. There are two sisters named

Mercer, inclined to be noisy--they are playing roulette in the next

room now. One is small and dark, almost Hebraic in type, named Leila and

called Lollie. The other, larger, very blonde and languishing, and with

a decided preference for masculine society, even, saving the mark,

mine! Dallas Brown's wife, good looking, smokes cigarettes when I am not

around--they all do, except Mrs. Wilson.

Then there is a maiden aunt, who is ill today with grippe and

excitement, and a Miss Knowles, who came for a moment last night to

see Mrs. Wilson, was caught in the quarantine (see papers), and, after

hiding all night in the basement, is sulking all day in her room. Her

presence created an excitement out of all proportion to the apparent

cause.

From the fact that I have reason to know that my artist host and his

beautiful wife are on bad terms, and from the significant glances with

which the announcement of Miss Knowles' presence was met, the state of

affairs seems rather clear. Wilson impresses me as a spineless sort,

anyhow, and when the lady of the basement shut herself away from the

rest today and I happened on "Jimmy," as they call him, pleading with

her through the door, I very nearly kicked him down the stairs. Oh, yes,

I'll keep out, right enough; it isn't my affair.

By the way, after the quarantine and with the policeman locked in the

furnace room, a pearl necklace and a diamond bracelet were stolen! Just

ten of us to divide the suspicion! Upon my word, Hal, it's the queerest

situation I ever heard of. Which of us did it? I make a guess that not

a few of us are fools, but which is the knave? The worst of it is, I am

the only unaccredited member of the household!




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