Mr. Twist moved in candid circles, and the soubriquet Chimp--short for Chimpanzee--by which he was known not only to his intimates but to police officials in America who would have liked to become more intimate than they were, had been bestowed upon him at an early stage of his career in recognition of a certain simian trend which critics affected to see in the arrangement of his features. “Looks good, don’t you think?” he said, stroking his moustache fondly. It and money were the only things he loved. “Anything you say. And I suppose, when you know you may be in the coop any moment, you like to have all the hair you can while you can.” Mr. Twist felt a little wounded. He did not like badinage about his moustache. He did not like tactless allusions to the coop. And he was puzzled by the unwonted brusqueness of the girl’s manner. The Dora Gunn he had known had been a cheery soul, quite unlike this tight-lipped, sombre-eyed person now before him. The girl was looking about her. She seemed perplexed. “What’s all this?” she asked, pointing her parasol at the writing on the window. Mr. Twist smiled indulgently and with a certain pride. He was, he flattered himself, a man of ideas, and this of presenting himself to the world as a private investigator he considered one of his happiest. “Just camouflage,” he said. “Darned useful to have a label. Keeps people from asking questions.” “It won’t keep me from asking questions. That’s what I’ve come for. Say, Chimp, can you tell the truth without straining a muscle?” “You know me, Dolly.” “Yes, that’s why I asked. Well, I’ve come to get you to tell me something. Nobody listening?” “Not a soul.” “How about the office boy?” “I haven’t got an office boy. Who do you think I am--Pierpont Morgan?” Thus reassured, the girl produced a delicate handkerchief, formerly the property of Harrod’s Stores and parted from unwittingly by that establishment. “Chimp,” she said, brushing away a tear, “I’m sim’ly miserable.” Chimp Twist was not the man to stand idly by while beauty in distress wept before him. He slid up and was placing a tender arm about her shoulder, when she jerked herself away. “You can tie a can to that stuff,” she said with womanly dignity. “I’d like you to know I’m married.” “Married?” “Sure. Day before yesterday--to Soapy Molloy.” “Soapy!” Mr. Twist started. “What in the world did you want to marry that slab of Gorgonzola for?” “I’ll ask you kindly, if you wouldn’t mind,” said the girl in a cold voice, “not to go alluding to my husband as slabs of Gorgonzola.” “He is a slab of Gorgonzola.” “He is not. Well, anyway, I’m hoping he’s not. It’s what I come here to find out.” Mr. Twist’s mind had returned to the perplexing matter of the marriage. “I don’t get this,” he said. “I saw Soapy a couple of weeks back and he didn’t say he’d even met you.”