"Frequently. If they're bad I have them locked in a closet. We've got a very large closet with windows and other comforts. Usually there are three or four of 'em in at the same time, so they don't mind." "God will surely reward you, sir, for being kind to all these poor little kiddies. May I--ahem!--May I express the hope, sir, that some day you may me blessed with--er--" "No use, sir. Thank you, just the same. It will never happen." "How many nurses have you in your employ?" "Four at present. We also have a school-teacher--I mean, a governess. Excellent young woman. Teaches 'em French and German. Curiously enough some of the children take to foreign languages quicker than the others. Force says that Reginald is a Hebrew. He was supposed to be Irish." "Very interesting. All of them strong and healthy?" "Absolutely. You'd think so if you could see 'em fight occasionally. They've had the whooping cough and chicken-pox. My doctor is the renowned Dr. Fiddler. You know of him?" Mr. Bingle proceeded to dilate upon the activities and achievements of Dr. Fiddler. There had been broken arms and prodigious bruises, cuts and gashes of every conceivable character, and in every instance Dr. Fiddler had performed with heroic fidelity. In the middle of a particularly enthusiastic tribute to the doctor's skill as a fish-bone extractor, Diggs appeared in the doorway, coughed indulgently, and then advanced. "Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. Bingle says the children are getting nervous. They happear to be--" A series of shrill screeches descended the stairway, followed by the sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression of bedlam. "Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet. "Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but--but I really can't delay the--er--Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run upstairs and see if--Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is Miss Fairweather?" "She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down--" "Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs. She's our new governess, Mr. Flan--" "What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking up his ears. He leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr. Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy portieres. "Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy--I mean to say, Amy--Fairweather." "Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally jerking that dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming. "Dark brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend--" The sly grin on the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly subdued his emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I--I was just wondering if--"