"Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. "Your detective has been remiss in his duty; let him suffer for it. His sister appeared. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. She throws a sort of spell over us all. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. Why should you want to shield him?" "I really don't know. You have nothing more to fear from Wild.
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