The shrewd hello girl, however, had erred in the case of Whitney Barnes, for this is the way his end of the conversation in booth No. 7 ran: --This the Ritz? Yes. Kindly connect me with Mr. Smith. --What Smith? Newest one you got. Forget the first name. Thomas Smith, you say. Well, give me Tom. --Hello, there, Trav--that is, Tom, or do you prefer Thomas? --What's that? Came in by way of Boston on a Cunarder? What's all the row? Read you were in Egypt, doing the pyramids. --Can't explain over the wire, eh. Hope it isn't a divorce case; they're beastly. --Ought to know you better than that. Say, what's the matter with your little angora? --Be serious; it's no joking matter. Well, if it wasn't serious how could I joke about it? You can't joke about a joke. --I'm a fool! I wonder where I heard that before. Oh, yes--a few minutes ago. My paternal parent said the same thing. --Can I meet you at your house? Where is it? I ought to know? I don't see why, you keep building it over all the time and then go way and leave it for two years at a stretch. Then when you do come home you go and live under the---- --Cut that out! My glory, but there is a mystery here. --Certainly, I don't want to spoil everything. --Have I an engagement? I should say I have. Just you call up Joshua Barnes and ask for the dope on it--a whole flock of engagements bunched into one large contract, the biggest I ever tackled. --No, I guess it won't prevent me from meeting you. Not unless I happen to see her on the way uptown. --Blessed if I know her any more than you. Wish I did, but whoever she is she's got to be pretty awful horrible nice. --Have I been drinking? No; but you better have one ready for me. Seen any of the chaps at the club? What's that? You gave it a wide berth. This is beginning to sound like a detective novel or a breach of promise case. --You don't tell me. Really, I'd never looked at myself in that light before. Sure, I'm stuck on myself. Head over heels in love with myself. I'm a classy little party, I am, and you better make the best of me while I'm here. Where am I going? Nowhere in particular. Just going to merge my individuality, bite a chunk out of an apple and get kicked out of the Garden of Eden. --Now you're sure I'm piffled. No such luck. Trav--that is, Mr. Smith--Mr. Thomas Smith! Shall I ask for Smith when I drop up at that little marble palace of yours? No. Oh, Bateato will be there if you happen to be delayed. How is the little son of Nippon? Oh, that's good. Five sharp. Tata, Smitty, old chap. By Jove, he's rung off with a curse---- CHAPTER VI. OFFICER 666 ON PATROL.