“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Chimp. “But first let’s get the business end straight. How do we divvy?” “Why, fifty-fifty, Chimp,” stammered Mr. Molloy, stunned at the suggestion implied in his words that any other arrangement could be contemplated. “Me and the madam counting as one, of course.” Chimp laughed sardonically. “Fifty-fifty nothing! I’m the brains of this concern, and the brains of a concern always gets paid highest. Look at Henry Ford! Look at the Archbishop of Canterbury!” “Do you mean to say,” demanded Dolly, “that if Soapy was sitting in with the Archbishop of Canterbury on a plan for skinning a sucker the archbish wouldn’t split Even Stephen?” “It isn’t like that at all,” retorted Mr. Twist with spirit. “It’s more as if Soapy went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and asked him to slip him a scheme for skinning the mug.” “Well, in that case,” said Mr. Molloy, “I venture to assert that the archbishop would simply say to me, ‘Molloy,’ he’d say----” Dolly wearied of a discussion which seemed to her too academic for the waste of valuable moments. “Sixty-forty,” she said brusquely. “Seventy-thirty,” emended Chimp. “Sixty-five-thirty-five,” said Mr. Molloy. “Right!” said Chimp. “And now I’ll tell you what to do.” I’ll give you five minutes first to see if you can think of it for yourself, and if you can’t, I’ll ask you not to start beefing because it’s so simple and not worth the money.” Five minutes’ concentrated meditation produced no brain wave in Mr. Molloy, who, outside his chosen profession of selling valueless oil stock to a trusting public, was not a very gifted man. “Well, then,” said Chimp, “here you are: You go to that fellow who’s taken the joint and ask him to let you buy it off him.” “Well, of all the fool propositions!” cried Dolly shrilly, and even Mr. Molloy came near to sneering. “Not so good, you don’t think?” continued Chimp, uncrushed. “Well, then, listen here to the rest of it. Dolly calls on this fellow first. She acts surprised because her father hasn’t arrived yet.” “Her what?” “Her father. Then she starts in vamping this guy all she can. If she hasn’t lost her pep since she last tried that sort of thing, the guy ought to be in pretty good shape for Act Two by the time the curtain rings up. That’s when you blow in, Soapy.” “Am I her father?” asked Mr. Molloy, a little blankly. “Sure, you’re her father. Why not?” Mr. Molloy, who was a little sensitive about the difference in age between his bride and himself, considered that Chimp was not displaying his usual tact, but muttered something about greying himself up some at the temples. “Then what?” asked Dolly. “Then,” said Chimp, “Soapy does a spiel.” Mr. Molloy brightened. He knew himself to be at his best when it came to a spiel. “Soapy says he was born in this joint--ages and ages ago.” “What do you mean--ages and ages ago?” said Mr. Molloy, starting.