As the door swung after him Seymour turned to Larabee and burst into a Mephistophelian laugh that would have been a credit to the late Lewis Morrison. “Larabee,” he said. “They’ll pick him up in pieces down on Eleventh street just two minutes after he hits McDonald’s office. Can you imagine anyone going to that old boy with a fool proposition like that? Can you imagine it!” “You certainly picked the last man in the world,” agreed Larabee. “Chorus girls and automobiles to meet ’em and a theatrical press agent. My God, Seymour, I really believe he won’t live long enough to even tell the doctor his name.” * * * * * It was mid-afternoon when Jimmy Martin returned to the Lyric Theatre. He breezed into George Seymour’s office with a grin on his face and an air of assurance that rather flabbergasted the manager. “Well, Georgie,” he said, “you certainly gave me the right dope. I landed buttered side up. Fine fellow, McDonald. Great personality. Best little old scout I’ve met in years.” “You _saw_ him?” gasped Seymour incredulously. “Saw him?” echoed Jimmy. “I should say I did. I lunched with him over at the Bankers’ Club and I’ve been out for a ride on the boulevard with him in his car. Fixed me up all right and he’s going to stand for everything.” “What brand of dope is that you use, Martin?” inquired the manager sarcastically. “I’d like to recommend it to some of my friends.” “Come down off the flying rings, Georgie,” retorted Jimmy. “What are you up in the air about? Didn’t you sic me onto him and didn’t he run to form just as you said he would. How’s this for a reception committee?” Jimmy reached in his coat pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. “Some class to that bird,” he said. “He had the little old stenographer write it out for me. Here’s the names: Jonathan Wilde, president of the Kewanee Packing Company; Judson Davis, secretary and general manager of the Twistwool Knitting Company; Horace Chadwick, president of the Oystermen’s First National Bank; Col. Hannibal Roundtree, president of the Carrolton Country Club; Jefferson Tait, retired gentleman; Henry Quinby Blugsden, Maximilian Hendricks, Marshall....” “Stop,” shouted Seymour. “You mean to tell me that McDonald gave you that list of names and said he’d stand for it?” “You can play that three ways, Georgie,” responded Jimmy, shoving the paper under the other’s nose. “There’s the list on his own personal stationery. This is the reception committee that’s going to motor out Sunday morning to bring our flossy frails into your beautiful city. At least my friend McDonald says they are and of course, I’ve got to take his word. So have the papers. I gather he’s some important person.”