“Not a syllable. It’s exclusive for you if you promise to use it. Of course, if you don’t I’ll have to drop in over at the Gazette office. It’s too good to waste.” Jennings seemed to look through Jimmy for a full half minute while he pondered deeply. “Young man,” he said finally. “I’m going to investigate this little yarn, but let me tell you that if it turns out to be a fake, I’ll have you deported as an undesirable alien.” He turned his gaze towards the little group of reporters on the other side of the room grinding out copy to the tune played by a dozen clicking typewriters. “Crandall,” he called out, “I’ve got a story for you to look up.” Jimmy effaced himself as the Bulletin’s star feature writer jumped up briskly in response to his chief’s summons. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter Fifteen The Horace Chadwicks were breakfasting in their stately old colonial home in the environs of the city. The shrill song of twittering robins came through the half-open windows on a gentle spring breeze and the morning sunlight flooded the room. A benign spirit of peace and domestic tranquility seemed to brood over the scene. Mr. Chadwick, a solid and substantial looking man of fifty-five, was supping his coffee and glancing through the financial columns of the Gazette. Mrs. Chadwick had finished her grape-fruit and had just picked up the Bulletin. She was a matronly person whose ample bosom seemed to be but the continuation of a rippling series of superfluous chins. She carried herself, even in her morning negligee, with that air of conscious rectitude and commanding importance which she felt to be fitting for a prominent banker’s wife who was a member of three important women’s clubs, secretary of the anti-cigarette section of the local branch of the W. C. T. U., vice-president of the Baltimore chapter of the League Opposed to Woman’s Suffrage and chairman of the Advisory Committee to the State Board of Moving Picture Censors. If Mr. Chadwick hadn’t been deeply immersed in the Gazette’s account of the proposed merger of certain copper interests he might have noticed gathering storm clouds a few feet away, but he was blissfully unconscious of any impending catastrophe. Screened by his paper he had no inkling of the passing train of emotions that were registered upon the extensive facial areas of the partner of his joys. Amazement, incredulity, bewilderment, chagrin, unholy rage—all of these feelings were depicted upon the countenance of Mrs. Chadwick and were succeeded in turn, by an expression of scornful calm that was pregnant with possibilities of a most unpleasant nature. She laid down the Bulletin, removed her glasses and addressed her husband in a voice that was cold and menacing. “What car do you propose using Sunday, Horace?” she asked.