"Thought of anything?" Barnes broke the silence. "Not a ---- thing," retorted Gladwin, peevishly. A broken-legged minute had crawled by when Barnes spoke again: "I've got it." "What?" Gladwin asked, uninspired. "Simplest thing in the world. Why didn't I think of it before?" "Somehow I don't think it's going to be any good," muttered Gladwin, without relinquishing his thoughtful pose. "Listen," said Barnes, impressively. "Go straight to the aunt and tell her the whole thing." Gladwin whirled around and gripped his friend's hand. "By Jove, you're right, Whitney! We can make a lot of excuses for her, youth and innocence, and all that. I didn't think you had it in you. Come on, we'll go together!" Barnes's face fell and he stammered: "But where does she live?" "Where does she live? Don't you know?" "No." It was Gladwin's turn to throw up his hands. "And don't you even know her name?" "No." "Then how in blazes were you going to call on that girl?" "By thunder! I forgot all about getting her address," admitted the crestfallen Barnes. Gladwin uttered a mirthless laugh and said with sarcastic scorn: "Oh, yes, you had a fine plan! I might have suspected as much." "Pile it on; pile it on," growled Barnes. "I guess the pater has me sized up about right." "But we must do something the police will know nothing about," urged Gladwin. "Let's concentrate again. Maybe a real idea will break out." Again the two young men wrinkled their brows in profound absorption. They succeeded so well in their effort at concentration that neither was aware of the precipitate entry of Bateato and Michael Phelan, both of whom had sprinted a distance of two blocks. Phelan was puffing like a tugboat and stopped at the threshold of the room to catch his breath. He had prepared his mind for all manner of excitement and had burst in upon a tomb-like silence to be greeted by two inscrutable backs. "What's this," he panted. "Eden Musee or a prayer-meetin'?" Barnes glanced over his shoulder and frowned. "Keep quiet," he said. "We're thinking." Gladwin strove to invent an excuse for getting rid of the policeman. "What do you want?" he bluffed, as if amazed at the sudden invasion. "What do I want?" shrilled Officer 666. "I come to find out what _youse_ want." "I don't want anything," said the young man with exaggerated politeness. "Thank you very much, but I don't want anything. Good evening!" "Good evening!" echoed Barnes, with another glance over his shoulder. Michael Phelan turned purple. He hadn't indulged in the most exhausting sprint in six months to be made sport of. "Which one of youse sent for me?" he rasped out. The two young men pointed to each other, which only served to fan the flame of Phelan's wrath. "Is one of youse Mr. Gladwin?" he gurgled. They repeated the pantomime until Gladwin caught the fire in Phelan's eye and decided that it would be better to temporize. "I am Mr. Gladwin," he bowed.