Moriarty came with the chicken and ham and coffee.
"If ye would like, it won't be a bit of trouble to show ye George
Washington's room; or"--with inimitable Irish drollery--"I can tell ye
that he dined in this very room."
"That will serve," smiled the girl; and Moriarty bowed himself out.
His departure was followed by the clatter of silver upon porcelain. Of
a truth, both of us were hungry.
"I was simply ravenous," the girl confessed.
"And as for me, I never dreamt I could be so unromantic. Now," said I,
pushing aside my plate, and dropping sugar into my coffee, and vainly
hunting in my pockets for a cigar, "there remains only one mystery to
be cleared up."
"And what might this mystery be?" she asked. "The whereabouts of the
bogus Haggerty?"
"The bogus Haggerty will never cross our paths again. He has skipped
by the light of the moon. No, that's not the mystery. Why did you
tell me you were an impostor; why did you go to the cellars with me,
when all the while you were at the ball on Mrs. Hyphen-Bonds'
invitation?"
She leaned on her elbows and smiled at me humorously.
"Would you really like to know, Signor? Well, I was an impostor." She
sat with her back to the fire, and a weird halo of light seemed to
surround her and frame her. "Mrs. Hyphen-Bonds accidentally dropped
that invitation in my studio, a few days before she sailed for Europe.
I simply could not resist the temptation. That is all the mystery
there is."
"And they still think you were there rightfully!"
"You are no longer mystified?"
"Yes; there is yet another mystery to solve: myself." I knew it.
Without rhyme or reason, I was in love; and without rhyme or reason, I
was glad of it.
"Shall you ever be able to solve such a mystery?"--quizzically.
"It all depends upon you."
"Mr. Comstalk, you will not mar the exquisite humor of our adventure by
causing me any annoyance. I am sure that some day we shall be very
good friends. But one does not talk of love on eight hours'
acquaintance. Besides, you would be taking advantage of my
helplessness; for I really depend upon you to see me safe back to New
York. It is only the romance, the adventure; and such moonlight nights
often superinduce sentimentality. What do you know of me? Nothing.
What do I know of you? Nothing, save that there is a kindred spirit
which is always likely to lead us into trouble. Down in your heart you
know you are only temporarily affected by moonshine. Come, make me a
toast!"--lifting her cup.