Carroll," advised Cluff, his good-
natured face clouding. "We're all a little het up. Let's have a
drink, and cool down."
"With you, with pleasure. I shall hope to meet you later, Mr.
Perkins," he added significantly.
"Well, I hope not," retorted the other. "My voice is still for
peace. Meantime, please assure Miss Brewster for me--"
"I warned you to keep that lady's name from your lips."
"You did. But I don't know by what authority. You're not her
father, I suppose. Are you her brother, by any chance?"
As he spoke, Perkins experienced that curious feeling that some
invisible person was trying to catch his eye. Now, as he turned
directly upon Carroll, his glance, passing over his shoulder,
followed a broad ray of light spreading from a second-story leaf-
framed balcony of the hotel. There was a stir amid the greenery.
The face of the Voice appeared, framed in flowers. Its features
lighted up with mirth, and the lips formed the unmistakable
monosyllable: "Boo!"
The identification was complete--"Boo to a goose."
"Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll!" Unwittingly he spoke the name
aloud, and, unfortunately, laughed.
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