tion that, at the worst, was abrupt. "Who is it this time, do you know?"
Mrs. Wix tried blind dignity. "Who is what, Sir Claude?"
"The man who stands the cabs. Who was in the one that waited at your door?"
At this challenge she faltered so long that it occurred to Maisie' s conscience to give her a hand. "It was n't the Captain."
Her good intention, however, only changed her old friend's scruple to a more ambiguous stare; besides, of course, making Sir Claude go off. Mrs. Wix fairly appealed to him. "Must I really tell you?"
His amusement continued. "Did she make you promise not to?"
Mrs. Wix looked at him still harder. "I mean—before Maisie."
Sir Claude laughed again. "Why, she can't hurt him!"
Maisie felt herself, as it passed, brushed by the light humor of this. "Yes, I can't hurt him!"
The straighteners again roofed her over; after which they seemed to crack with the explosion of their wearer's honesty. Amid the flying splinters Mrs. Wix produced a name. "Mr. Tischbein."
