ning to see might be called a constitutionally imperious manner.

She did not tarry for more. Things of moment, apparently, awaited her above stairs. And I could see my two old conspiratorial friends sidle silently into the room after me. We all sat down, watching the door.

It was old Ezra Bartlett who spoke first.

"You'd best beware of that young woman," he proclaimed in a venomous yet guarded whisper.

"Did you happen to be addressing me?" I inquired, attempting to fix him with a cold and haughty stare. But it's no easy thing to be cold and haughty when you've only got one eye.

"I tell you that woman's an impostor," hissed out the old man, anxiously watching the open door.

"And what do you two old blisters regard yourself as?" I coldly inquired.

"What does she say?" demanded old Brother Enoch, with one hand cupped behind his ear.

"She insinuates that we're a couple of impostors,"

Ezra Bartlett peevishly explained.

"Well, ain't we?" demanded the other.

But Brother Ezra ignored that interrogation.

"By gad, ma'am," he told me with unexpected heat, "if you don't see that you're being hoaxed, if