in such a pitying, indulgent way that Ralph was fairly nettled.
"I won't fight you," declared Van, putting on his coat again. "You think so much of your mother that I'll forgive you. But I think a lot of her, too, as you well know, and, knowing it, you ought to have thought twice before you—yes, imputed to me any action that could do her any harm."
"You're right, Van," said Ralph, grasping both hands of his eccentric chum, heartily enough this time. "I am so strung up, though, with things happening, and so much suspicion and mystery in the air, that I'm jumping to all kinds of conclusions helter-skelter. I hate mystery, you know."
"Sit down," said Van, moving around to the door of the dismantled summerhouse, and dropping to its worm-eaten seat. "I want to tell you something. I wasn't looking in that window expecting to see your mother."
"No?"
"Not at all."
"Then it must have been Mrs. Davis, the woman who lives there."
"Is that her name?" inquired Van, with a shrewd smile.
"She says it is."
"You know her, then? Well, I don't, Ralph.
