In his delight he wanted to do something for somebody, and his thoughts turned to Cecily. He sought a florist’s again. “Every morning,” he said, to the dapper young clerk who waited on him, “every morning I want you to make a selection of the flowers which you have which are suitable--suitable for the middle of a table, centerpiece, you know. Ever have an order like that?” “Yes, sir,” said the omniscient clerk. “Several ladies have left standing orders for their tables.” “Good line, that last. Well, you do as you do to them. This address for the flowers; that for the bills.” “Any length of time, sir?” “Oh, yes,” said Dick. “Always. As long as we both (you and I, my friend) shall live. Always. Why not? Sure.” “Kind of a nut,” said the clerk, gratefully regarding the departing figure of the man who had given him the biggest order he’d ever booked. “Sweet on her now, you know. But he’ll get sick of that. Wait till he gets a bill or two.” Dick went out and jumped into the roadster which stood by the curb, and started for the garage. He wouldn’t sell the car, but he would put it up. He couldn’t take it up to the range and play the game he wanted to play. He skirted the main streets, for the traffic was heavy during this late afternoon hour. Just off one of the big commercial streets he turned down an avenue always of doubtful repute, even in these days of supposedly high city morals--a street of ramshackle buildings which were supposed to be apartments, but behind whose dingy lace curtains quack doctors and dentists had their lucrative offices, spiritualists held cheap séances and other money-making transients had their headquarters. Just in front of his car, held up by a confusion of trucks in front of it, Dick saw a singularly well-dressed woman whom he looked at with interest and then amazement as he recognized her. It was Della. No doubt of it. They had all criticized that short white fur coat when she bought it. She was going along slowly, close in to the walls which bordered the sidewalk, looking for something in some window. It struck Dick that she wanted to avoid detection. Then he turned to put on his brakes and when he looked up again she had gone--through one of those dingy wood framed doorways. Dick pulled up his car and waited farther down the street. It was growing darker now and he was worried. No place for a girl to be alone. What could she be up to? After half an hour he saw her again, the white fur coat starting out of the dusky street. He followed her with the car and hailed her when she was four or five blocks away from the place she had stopped. “Hey, Della. Can I bring you home?” She got in with an attempt at her usual hilarity, which struck him as very forced. He maneuvered until they stopped under an arc light and then shot a swift glance at her face. She had been crying, all right. Crying her eyes out. “Where have you been all afternoon?” he asked her casually.