"Ah, I see!" I cried. "Then the girl conspired to encompass her
father's end, and is now in fear of the impostor!"
"I must leave you to your own opinion," he said, with a shrug of his
thin shoulders. Then, turning away to the window, he thrust his hands
into his pockets, and, with that cosmopolitan air of his, he hummed a
verse of that catchy song of the boulevards he so often sang.