“By Heavens, I don’t believe it!” he blurted out, his gaze direct upon the Unspeakable Perk.

“What don’t you believe?”

“That rotten club gossip.”

“About me?”

“Yes,” said Carroll, reddening.

The hermit pushed his glasses down, settled into place the white gloves, with their soothing contents of emollient greases, and got to his feet.

“We’d best be moving.  I’ve got much to do,” he said.

“Not yet,” retorted Carroll.  “Perkins, is there a woman up there on the mountains with you?”

“That is purely my own business.”

“You told Miss Brewster there wasn’t.  If you tell me—­”

“I never told her any such thing.  She misunderstood.”

“Who is the woman?”

“If you want it even more frankly, that is none of your concern.”

“You have been letting Miss Brewster—­”

“Are you engaged to marry Miss Brewster?”

“No.”

“Then you have no authority to question me.  But,” he added wearily, “if it will ease your mind, and because of what you’ve done to-day, I ’ll tell you this—­that I do not expect ever to see Miss Brewster again.”

“That isn’t enough,” insisted Carroll, his face darkening.  “Her name has already been connected with yours, and I intend to follow this through.  I am going to find out who the woman is at your place.”

“How do you propose to do it?”

“By coming to see.”

“You’ll be welcome,” said the other grimly.  “By the way, here’s a map.”  He made a quick sketch on the back of an envelope.  “I’ll be there at work most of to-morrow.  Au revoir.”  He rose and started down the hill.  “Better keep to yourself this evening,” he warned.  “Take a dilute carbolic bath.  You’ll be all right, I think.”

Slowly and thoughtfully the Southerner made his way back to the hotel.  After dining in his own room, he found time heavy on his hands; so, dispatching a note of excuse to Miss Brewster on the plea of personal business, he slipped out into the city.  Wandering idly toward the hills, he presently found himself in a familiar street, and, impelled by human curiosity, proceeded to turn up the hill and stop opposite the blank door.

Here he was puzzled.  To go in and inquire, even if he cared to and could make himself understood, would perhaps involve further risk of infection.  While he was considering, the door slowly opened, and the leather-skinned crone appeared.  Her eyes were swollen.  In her hand she carried a travesty of a wreath, done in whitish metal, which she had interwoven with her own black mantilla, the best substitute for crape at hand.  This she undertook to hang on the door.  As Carroll crossed to address her, a powerful, sullen-faced man, with a scarred forehead and the insignia of some official status, apparently civic, on his coat, emerged from a doorway and addressed her harshly.  She raised her reddened eyes to