“Who has throw the orange?” he demanded, forgetting his English in his
excitement.
“You can have it reblocked,” I said comfortingly.
The count looked as if I had insulted him.
“’Ere?” he cried, pointing to the ground at his feet as if a hatter and
his block were sitting there. “Never. I brought it from Italy.”
From below the voices persisted:
“Were you with Miss Harris?” This from Mr. Hamilton.
“Yes, I was.”
“Did she throw an orange?” This from Mr. Hazard.
“Why should any one throw an orange out of a front window?”
Miss Bliss answered that.
“She might. She’s a singer and they do queer things. I knew a singer
once and she threw a clock that wouldn’t go into a bathtub full of
water.”
This seemed to convince the count of Miss Harris’ guilt.
“She did it. I must see ’er,” he cried, and tried to get past me. I
spread my arms across the passage. If he and Miss Harris met in their
several fiery states of mind, there would be a riot on the top floor.
I don’t like to tell lies, but I remembered Roger had said that a
gentleman could lie to shield another. Why not a lady? Besides, in this
case, I would shield two others, for I had no doubt if Count Delcati
intruded on Miss Harris he would be worsted. She was quite capable of
throwing the other oranges at him and the three-legged stool.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “She didn’t throw it.”
The male portion of the lower floor chorused:
“I knew she didn’t.”
“She couldn’t have.”
“Why should she?”
The count, with maledictions on the country, the city, the street and
the house, entered his room, the Westerners entered theirs and Mr.
Hamilton ascended to his. He puffed by me on the stairs:--
“Ridiculous to accuse a lovely woman like Miss Harris of such a thing.
We ought to deport these Italians. They’re a menace to the country.”
Miss Bliss alone lingered. She is a pretty, frowsy little thing who
looks cold and half fed, and always wears a kimono jacket fastened at
the neck with a safety pin. She waited till all the doors had banged,
then looking up, hissed softly:
“She did it. I was looking out of my window and saw it coming down and
it couldn’t have come from anywhere but her room.”
“Hush,” I said, leaning over the banister. “She did. It’s the artistic
temperament.”
Miss Bliss, as a model--artist not cloak--needed no further
explanation. With a low comprehending murmur she stole into her room.