He turned, for the dismayed servants had come out and stood in a row in the hall aghast at the appearance of the visitors who stood awkwardly shifting their feet in the main doorway, their suit-cases and bundles in their arms, awaiting directions. "Take those things upstairs--show 'em, Christopher," says Jerry. "You show 'em to their rooms, Poole. And when you're washed up, Flynn, come down here again." Over his shoulder I watched the hulking devils go past in sheepish single file with furtive glances at me. When they had passed out of sight, Jerry explained rapidly. "You see, Roger, we had to do it. There was no other way. I needed some running badly and there wasn't a chance for it--without the whole thing coming out in the papers." I smiled ironically. "And you think you've chosen a way to avoid publicity by bringing these"--I restrained myself with difficulty--"these _gentlemen_ here? Don't you know that every paper in New York will have a man here writing the thing up?" "No, they won't. They can't get in. I stopped at the Lodge as I came by and gave my orders." "But they'll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same." Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose. "No, they won't, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he isn't." "I don't understand." "Well, you see, I'm Jim Robinson and _you_ are Jerry Benham." "I!" I gasped. "Precisely. You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art--Maecenas, friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you've invited to Horsham Manor to complete his training." "Preposterous! These--these bruisers" (I let go now) "think I'm _you_?" "No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and king of good fellows. Flynn knows the truth, of course, but he's shut as tight as a clam. He won't talk, for his own interests are involved." "You expect me to play the part of good fellow," I broke out when I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of his information. "You expect me to entertain this motley aggregation of assorted criminals as Jerry Benham! Well, I won't, and that's flat." "Now, Roger, don't be unreasonable," he said with a cajoling smile. "They're a pretty decent lot, really. Sagorski--the big chap with the fuzzy hair, he's not half bad when you know him; and Carty, the one with the cauliflower ear, his fight comes off inside of a week. We're helping him out, too, you see--good food, clean air--bully fellow--a little too finely drawn just now and a bit irritable--" "I see. A bit irritable--so am I--" "And then," he went on, "the other big fellow is Tim O'Halloran, my chopping block, has a nasty left--and is a demon for punishment. The little fellow is Kid Spatola, an Italian, one of my handlers, the bootblack champion. Oh, they're a fine lot, Roger--You'll get to like 'em. Nothing like being thrown with chaps a lot to know what they're like--inside of 'em, I mean."