"He's right," Joy said. "A lot of explanation is wanting. There are some people we've got to catch up with. Let's go." With that, she drew Bag Ears and me toward the French doors through which had recently passed some of the fastest moving objects in this or any other world. We made the flag-stone terrace above the drive where Bag Ears cordially grasped my hand and said, "Well, it was a nice party, folks, and if I ever get spliced I'll sure give you a invite and I sure had a swell time and remember me to your aunt when she wakes up and--" He was backing down the steps when Joy cut in with, "Bag Ears. Don't be so rude. You're in no hurry." Bag Ears slowed down and allowed us to catch up with him. He gave us a sickly smile. "That's where you're wrong, babe." "Bag Ears," Joy went on. "I heard you whisper to Homer that you know who that blonde is." "What blonde? Me? I don't know nothing about no blonde no-how." "Don't hedge. I mean the girl who was assisting Uncle Peter behind the bar. Who is she, really?" "Oh--her. Everybody knows her. She's Hands McCaffery's moll. He likes 'em blonde and--" Bag Ears was on the move again, striding in the direction of the gate. We hurried to catch up. "That babe's poison," he told us. "Any skirt that'd flock with Hands McCaffery is poison. I'll tell you kids what I'd do. If she drives south--I'd drive north. Goodbye now." Just at that moment a big blue sports roadster pushed a bright chromium nose around the corner of the house. I took a firm grip on Bag Ears' collar, grabbed Joy by the arm, and the three of us leaped behind a bush. The car rolled past us. We saw the blonde behind the wheel and Uncle Peter seated beside her, evidently still protesting the hasty exodus. * * * * * But the girl looked very sharp and businesslike; the way a girl would look who knew where she was going and why. The car picked up speed and swung north. "I wonder," Joy murmured, "how Uncle Peter happened to select Hands McCaffery's girl friend as his assistant." "She was a burlycue queen last time I heard of her," Bag Ears said. "Still is, I guess." "That could explain it," I told Joy. "You see, Uncle Peter has--ah, facets to his personality. A tendency to admire women. Ah--" "Women--period; isn't that what you mean?" "Well, it would be perfectly logical for Uncle Peter to select an assistant from the stage of a burlesque theater." "Enough of this," Joy snapped. "We're wasting time. Go get--oh, never mind! Wait here." Joy was off in the direction of the garage and in no time at all she was back in my Cadillac convertible. As she sailed by I managed to hook a finger around the door handle and get a foot inside. This was no mean feat, as I was also occupied in hauling Bag Ears along by the collar. I managed to deposit him in the seat beside Joy and squeeze in beside him.