“Is there anything--wrong with the Henshaws, Calderwell?” Calderwell came suddenly erect in his chair. “Thank you! I hoped you'd introduce that subject; though, for that matter, if you hadn't, I should. Yes, there is--and I'm looking to you, old man, to get them out of it.” “I?” Arkwright sat erect now. “Yes.” “What do you mean?” “In a way, the expected has happened--though I know now that I didn't really expect it to happen, in spite of my prophecies. You may remember I was always skeptical on the subject of Bertram's settling down to a domestic hearthstone. I insisted 'twould be the turn of a girl's head and the curve of her cheek that he wanted to paint.” Arkwright looked up with a quick frown. “You don't mean that Henshaw has been cad enough to find another--” Calderwell threw up his hand. “No, no, not that! We haven't that to deal with--yet, thank goodness! There's no woman in it. And, really, when you come right down to it, if ever a fellow had an excuse to seek diversion, Bertram Henshaw has--poor chap! It's just this. Bertram broke his arm again last October.” “Yes, so I hear, and I thought he was looking badly.” “He is. It's a bad business. 'Twas improperly set in the first place, and it's not doing well now. In fact, I'm told on pretty good authority that the doctor says he probably will never use it again.” “Oh, by George! Calderwell!” “Yes. Tough, isn't it? 'Specially when you think of his work, and know--as I happen to--that he's particularly dependent on his right hand for everything. He doesn't tell this generally, and I understand Billy and the family know nothing of it--how hopeless the case is, I mean. Well, naturally, the poor fellow has been pretty thoroughly discouraged, and to get away from himself he's gone back to his old Bohemian habits, spending much of his time with some of his old cronies that are none too good for him--Seaver, for instance.” “Bob Seaver? Yes, I know him.” Arkwright's lips snapped together crisply. “Yes. He said he knew you. That's why I'm counting on your help.” “What do you mean?” “I mean I want you to get Henshaw away from him, and keep him away.” Arkwright's face darkened with an angry flush. “Great Scott, Calderwell! What are you talking about? Henshaw is no kid to be toted home, and I'm no nursery governess to do the toting!” Calderwell laughed quietly. “No; I don't think any one would take you for a nursery governess, Arkwright, in spite of the fact that you are still known to some of your friends as 'Mary Jane.' But you can sing a song, man, which will promptly give you a through ticket to their innermost sacred circle. In fact, to my certain knowledge, Seaver is already planning a jamboree with you at the right hand of the toastmaster. There's your chance. Once in, stay in--long enough to get Henshaw out.”