"Some scene, isn't it?" said the stranger. "Sort of makes the musical comedies look cheap. All it needs is seven stately chorus ladies walking out from behind that palm down to the left, and it would have Broadway lashed to the mast." "Yes," replied Minot absently. "This is the real thing." "I've been sitting here thinking," the other went on. "It doesn't seem to me this place has been advertised right. Why, there are hundreds of people up north whose windows look out on sunset over the brewery--people with money, too--who'd take the first train for here if they realized the picture we're looking at now. Get some good hustler to tell 'em about it--" He paused. "I hate to talk about myself, but say--ever hear of Cotrell's Ink Eraser? Nothing ever written Cotrell can't erase. Will not soil or scratch the paper. If the words Cotrell has erased were put side by side--" "Selling it?" Minot inquired wearily. "No. But I made that eraser. Put it on every desk between New York and the rolling Oregon. After that I landed Helot's Bottled Sauces. And then Patterson's Lime Juice. Puckered every mouth in America. Advertising is my specialty." "So I gather." "Sure as you sit here. Have a cigar. Trimmer is my name--never mind the jokes. Henry Trimmer. Advertising specialist. Is your business flabby? Does it need a tonic? Try Trimmer. Quoting from my letter-head." He leaned closer. "Excuse a personal question, but didn't I see you talking with Miss Cynthia Meyrick a while back?" "Possibly." Mr. Trimmer came even closer. "Engaged to Lord Harrowby, I understand." "I believe so--" "Young fellow," Mr. Trimmer's tone was exultant, "I can't keep in any longer. I got a proposition in tow so big it's bursting my brain cells--and it takes some strain to do that. No, I can't tell you the exact nature of it--but I will say this--to-morrow night this time I'll throw a bomb in this hotel so loud it'll be heard round the world." "An anarchist?" "Not on your life. Advertiser. And I've got something to advertise this hot February, take it from me. Maybe you're a friend of Miss Meyrick. Well, I'm sorry. For when I spring my little surprise I reckon this Harrowby wedding is going to shrivel up and fade away." "You mean to say you--you're going to stop the wedding?" "I mean to say nothing. Watch me. Watch Henry Trimmer. Just a tip, young fellow. Well, I guess I'll turn in. Get some of my best ideas in bed. See you later." And Mr. Trimmer strode into the circle of light, a fine upstanding figure of a man, to pass triumphantly out of sight among the palms. Dazed, Dick Minot stared after him. A voice spoke his name. He turned. The slim white presence again, holding toward him a slip of paper. "The check, Mr. Minot. Thirty-five dollars. Is that correct?" "Correct. It's splendid. Because I'm never going to cash it--I'm going to keep it--" "Really, Mr. Minot, I must say good--"