It had looked like a mighty dull autumn, but things were looking better, thought Sharon Froman contentedly. True, if she was going to help this interesting Mr. Chesbro with the curious wife it would mean deferring work on her novel again. Too bad. But she didn't mind the sacrifice. She had made it often enough before. * * * * * Regional organization. Hammer hard. Grants from the government? Sure. Tax breaks from the northern states, panicky attempts to match whatever the South might offer? Sure, thought Artie Chesbro; he could arrange that easily. And then? No more waiting for the legislature to approve or for the assayers to report or for any of the other soul-killing delays that had been the sum of his life; he would be in, he would be at the top of something big. Where he had always wanted to be. Where he deserved to be. He looked across to where his wife had gone. And her, he thought, satisfied, she would learn at last! Everything he had had to put up with from her, over. Just because her father had a little money she'd thought she owned him--him! Artie Chesbro! He cleared his throat. "We'd better get some sleep, Miss Froman," he told the girl. "We've got to talk about this in the morning. I think there's a good deal in it--for both of us." Mrs. Goudeket almost pounded the floor with her fists. Again on her feet! Always this Miss Froman would land on her feet! Without hard work, without virtue, always by black magic being in the right place, always by the smiling face and the straightforward look fooling the one person she had to fool. And this time it wasn't one man, it was two. So let Mickey Groff slip through one snare, she had Artie Chesbro caught in another. God, you call this fair? she demanded. Better she should have left her at Goudeket's Green Acres. What could she have caught there? That star of stage and screen and _brissim_, Dave Wax? The horse-wire expert, Mr. Semmel? But no! She had to throw the girl out--into this! Mrs. Goudeket moaned and put her fingers in her ears to shut out the maddening words. CHAPTER EIGHT That star of stage, screen and _brissim_ shouted fuzzily at the door: "Go to hell! Let me sleep!" "Dave!" It was Mr. Semmel's voice. "There's some men here. They want to talk to you." Dave Wax made an obscene suggestion to Mr. Semmel. He was a tummeler, not the manager of the hotel; let Mrs. Goudeket come back and talk if somebody should do it--"Wait a minute. What'd you say, Semmel?" The concessionaire repeated it. "The flood's over?" demanded Dave Wax. "The roads are dry?" He staggered over to the window to see the miracle for himself. Semmel let himself in. "They came in a boat." "Oh." But it was no surprise. It was still raining. "All right. I'll come down."