had caused Mrs. Smith-Jones’s excitement. She had forgotten that they did not know that Waldo and Thandar were one. Now she could scarce repress a smile of amusement nor resist the temptation to take advantage of Mrs. Smith-Jones’s ignorance to bait her further.
“You had another lover beside Waldo?” asked Mr. Smith-Jones.
“I loved Thandar,” she replied. “Thandar was king of my people. He loved me. He slew Nagoola for me and gave me his skin. He-slew Korth and Flatfoot, also. They wanted me, but Thandar slew them. And Big Fist he slew, and Sag the Killer—oh, Thandar was a mighty fighter. Can you wonder that I loved him?”
“He was a hideous murderer!” cried. Mrs. Smith-Jones, “and to think that my poor Waldo; poor, timid, gentle Waldo, was condemned to live among such savage brutes. Oh, it is too terrible!”
Nadara’s eyes went wide. It was her turn to suffer a shock. “Poor, timid, gentle Waldo!” Had she heard aright? Could it be that they were describing the same man? There must be some mistake.
“Did Waldo know that you loved Thandar?” asked Mr. Smith-Jones.
“Thandar was Waldo,” she replied. “Thandar is the name I gave him—it means the Brave One.
