“All right--all right. Now, let’s see. You know Nina Cordova, star of that new musical show that’s a sure-fire frost--what is it?” “‘Orange Blossoms.’ Yes, I know of her.” “Then you’ll remember that in young Morton’s previous Broadway incarnation he had an affair with her--which little Nina broke off sharp and sudden when she got the chance a year ago at the star’s part in ‘The Bridal Wreath’? She’s a live proposition: why not inject her into the affair?” “I’ve thought of that,” said Clifford. “H’m. Well, then,” Uncle George meditated, “you remember how Jack Morton, when he was along here before, used to like his little quart or two or three of champagne?--and how he behaved when he was all lit up? Why not kidnap him from Bradley, give him a chance to be his real self again, and then ship him to Mary? This different Jack Morton might make her stop and think. Or send him along to his old man--and when his old man saw how the kid had broken training he might do what he’s threatened, stop Jack’s dough; and this might be enough of a jolt to make Mary call the thing off.” “I’ve thought of those things, too.” “You seem to have thought of everything,” half grumbled Uncle George. “Well, what’s the matter with these ways?” “For one thing, it would take time to put them across. I’ve got to act quickly, for there’s no telling what she’ll do. Besides, before I take any action, I’d like to learn how she got into this matter; I’d like to learn just what Loveman’s and Bradley’s part in the game has been, just what they plan to make of it in the future.” “I get you,” nodded Uncle George. “So that you can plan your action accordingly. But that’s some job, son,--getting in on the inside of the game of such a pair as Bradley and Loveman.” “I know it. It can only be done indirectly.” Clifford regarded Uncle George thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly asked: “Do you know Jack Morton’s father?” “I’ve met him.” “Know him well enough to get into a friendly talk with him?” “Son,” demanded Uncle George in an aggrieved tone, “you mean to insult me by asking if I need even to have seen a man before to be his best friend inside of thirty minutes--me that could go out now and sell old Andy Carnegie’s pig-iron billets back to him as gold-bricks!” Uncle George looked at his watch. “Father Morton is staying at the Biltmore. It’s now six-twenty. I’ve noticed that he leads himself into the smoking-room at six-thirty for a cocktail. I feel a craving for a Biltmore cocktail. Son, just where is that building lot in North River located that you want me to sell him?” “Could you steer the talk around to his son--make him doubt Bradley a bit--say something good about me--and implant in him the idea that he ought to consult me?” “Could I? Why don’t you write me an act that’d bring out my talents? It’s already done--what you going to do next?” “That depends on whether Mr. Morton comes to see me, and whether I get anything out of him.”