"Mind? Why, my dear boy," says he, "you are my deliverer! I owe you more than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous old person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. She has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and--disturbed me greatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it. Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone who--er--who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that I would--ah--marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousand times, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have two wives, a dozen. And have some cigars--oh, fill your pockets, my boy. And here--the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to drop in at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!" He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on the back as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on the sidewalk. "Double crossed!" groans Whity. "Smothered in mush!" "As a plotter, Whity," says I, "you're a dub. But if you gunked it one way, you drew a consolation the other. At this stage of the game I guess I'm commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a small token of his esteem." "Eh?" says Whity. "Twenty? What for?" "Ah, go bull the market with it, and don't ask fool questions!" says I. Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie's bouillabaisse function on today's society page, double-column half-tone cut and all. I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins. "Were you there, young man?" says he, eyin' me suspicious. "Yep!" says I. "I thought so," says he, "when Cousin Inez came home and began packing her trunks. I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet is all off??' "Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.," says I. "Your two tenspots went with it." "Huh!" he snorts. "That's as far as I care to inquire. Some day I'm going to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck the administration." CHAPTER XVII TORCHY GETS A THROUGH WIRE First off, when I pipes the party in the pale green lid and the fuzzy English topcoat, I thought it was some stray from the House of Lords; but as it drifts nearer to the brass rail and I gets a glimpse of the mild blue eyes behind the thick, shell-rimmed glasses, I discovers that it's only Son-in-law Ferdy; you know, hubby to Marjorie Ellins that was. "Wat ho!" says I. "Just in from Lunnon?" "Why, no," says Ferdy, gawpin' foolish. "Whatever made you think that?" "Then it's a disguise, is it?" says I, eyin' the costume critical. "Oh, bother!" says Ferdy peevish. "I told Marjorie I should be stared at. And I just despise being conspicuous, you know! Where's Robert?" "Mr. Robert ain't due back for an hour yet," says I. "You could catch him at the club, I expect."