Teeters moved in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.
Outwardly, there would seem to be no possible connection between his presence in the living room at Happy Wigwam making himself even more than ordinarily agreeable, and the confession he desired to wring from the murderer of Mormon Joe.
Years of "Duding," however, had given Teeters a confidence in himself and his diplomacy which would seem to be justified, for, as he rightly argued, "A man who can handle dudes can do anything."
Now, he knew that if he had come to Mrs. Taylor and bluntly asked the use of her supernatural gifts in Kate's behalf she would have refused him.
Kate had gone to Teeters in despair after her failure with Mullendore, hoping that he might have something to suggest which had not occurred to her. She had told him all that had happened, and among other things, that she knew now that the "breed" had negro blood in him.
"It probably accounts for his secret belief in an old-fashioned, brimstone hell," she had added. "He denies it, of course, but I'm sure it's the one thing he's really afraid of."
The information had impressed Teeters.
"You go back and keep the varmit alive until I git there," he had advised her. "I got a black speck in my brain, and every time it hits the top of my head I get an idea--I think it's goin' to strike directly."
The present visit was evidence that it had done so. The situation was one which demanded all his subtlety, but what possible bearing the deep interest with which he was eying the garment Mrs. Taylor was repairing could have upon it, the most astute would have found it difficult to imagine.
The bifurcated article of wearing apparel was of outing flannel, roomy where amplitude was most needed, gathered at the waist with a drawstring, confined at the ankle by a deep ruffle--a garment of amazing ugliness.
"I suppose," Teeters ventured guilelessly, "them things is handier than skirts to git over fences and do chores in?" Then, with an anticipatory air, he waited.
He was not disappointed. Mrs. Taylor laid down her work and, throwing back her head, burst into laughter that was ringing, Homeric, reverberating through the house like some one shouting in a canyon. It continued until Teeters was alarmed lest he had overdone matters.
She subsided finally and, wiping her streaming eyes on a ruffle, shook a playful finger at him: "Clarence, you are killing--simply killing!"
Teeters did not deny it. He had not yet recovered from the fear that he might be. But he had accomplished what he had intended--he had furnished Mrs. Taylor with the "one good laugh a day" which she declared her health and temperament demanded.