"I don't mean to scare you," went on Despeaux, his manner milder. "I'm not
planning to commit murder or steal a state! It's Morrison right now! He's
the one we're after! This whole thing may be taken care of in another
way--so easily that it may make us smile. I've been keeping my eyes open,
Blanchard--ears, too! Did you see Morrison rush to the Senator's daughter?
A fellow can work himself into a terrible state of worry over the dear,
unprotected people, when he has nothing else better to take up his mind.
But after a Scotchman goes crazy over a girl--well, when the whole of 'em
hold Poet Bobby Burns up as the type of their race, they know what they're
talking about!"
"I can hardly conceive of Morrison being a poet or relishing poetry or the
ways of a poet," returned Blanchard, dryly.
"And he probably has never read a line of it in his whole life," agreed
Despeaux. "But that isn't the point! You may think I've gone off on a
queer tack, all of a sudden, but I know human nature! That girl is back
here with a slick young fellow, and he's the pepper in a certain mess of
Scotch broth that has been heated up all over again, if I'm any guesser.
That girl has been living in Washington, Blanchard.
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