"Sogelist! No use f'r idle rich. Ev' read B'nard Shaw? Huh? Or Upton Sinclair? Uh? Read'm. Make y'think a bit. Well, y'haven't told me whasser trouble." Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which had had more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious, she had never been confronted with a detective like this. The galling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged a detective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not for suavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you through clenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money than one who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, is incompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people, subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the more efficient he must be. It is but rarely that any one is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed down her resentment at her visitor's tone, and tried to concentrate her mind on the fact that this was a business matter and that what she wanted was results rather than fair words. She found it easier to do this when looking at the other's face. It was a capable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise of action. Miss Trimble having ceased temporarily to speak, her mouth was in repose, and when her mouth was in repose it looked more efficient than anything else of its size in existence. "I want you," said Mrs. Pett, "to come here and watch some men--" "Men! Thought so! Wh' there's trouble, always men't bottom'f it!" "You do not like men?" "Hate 'em! Suff-gist!" She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett. Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow. "You S'porter of th' Cause?" Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strong opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that moment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme. "A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be my nephew, James Crocker. He is an impostor. I want you to watch him very carefully." "Whassiz game?" "I do not know. Personally I think he is here to kidnap my son Ogden." "I'll fix'm," said the fair Trimble confidently. "Say, that butler 'f yours. He's a crook!" Mrs. Pett opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent at her work. "Have you found that out already?" "D'rectly saw him." Miss Trimble opened her purse. "Go' one 'f his photographs here. Brought it from office. He's th' man that's wanted 'll right." "Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man, the one who pretends to be my nephew." "Sure. I'll fix 'm." She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch with vicious emphasis.