“Ages and ages ago,” repeated Chimp firmly, “before he had to emigrate to America and leave the dear old place to be sold. He has loving childhood recollections of the lawn where he played as a kiddy and worships every brick in the place. All his favourite relations pegged out in the rooms upstairs, and all like that. Well, I’m here to say,” concluded Chimp emphatically, “that if that guy has any sentiment in him and if Dolly has done the preliminary work properly, he’ll drop.” There was a tense silence. “It’ll work,” said Soapy. “It might work,” said Dolly, more doubtfully. “It will work,” said Soapy. “I shall be good. I will have that lobster weeping into his handkerchief inside three minutes.” “A lot depends on Dolly,” Chimp reminded him. “Don’t you worry about that,” said the lady stoutly. “I’ll be good too. But listen here; I’ve got to dress this act. This is where I have to have that hat with the bird-of-paradise feather that I see in Regent Street this morning.” “How much?” inquired the rest of the syndicate in a single breath. “Eighteen guineas.” “Eighteen guineas!” said Chimp. “Eighteen guineas!” said Soapy. They looked at each other wanly, while Dolly, unheeded, spoke of ships and ha’porths of tar. “And a new dress,” she continued, warming to her work. “And new shoes and a new parasol and new gloves and new----” “Have a heart, petty,” pleaded Mr. Molloy. “Exercise a little discretion, sweetness.” Dolly was firm. “A girl,” she said, “can’t do herself justice in a tacky lid. You know that. And you know as well as I do that the first thing a gentleman does is to look at a dame’s hoofs. And as for gloves, I simply beg you to cast an eye on these old things I’ve got on now and ask yourselves----” “Oh, all right, all right,” said Chimp. “All right,” echoed Mr. Molloy. Their faces were set grimly. These men were brave, but they were suffering. CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE CHIRRUP Mr. Wrenn looked up from his plate with a sudden start, a wild and febrile glare of horror in his eyes. Old theatregoers, had any such been present, would have been irresistibly reminded by his demeanour of the late Sir Henry Irving in _The Bells_. It was breakfast time at San Rafael; and, as always at this meal, the air was charged with an electric unrest. It is ever thus at breakfast in the suburbs. The specter of a fleeting train broods over the feast, turning normally placid men into temporary neuropaths. Meeting Mr. Wrenn in Fleet Street after lunch, you would have set him down as a very pleasant, quiet, elderly gentleman, rather on the mild side. At breakfast, Bengal tigers could have picked up hints from him. “Zatawittle?” he gasped, speaking in the early morning patois of Suburbia, which is the English language filtered through toast and marmalade. “Of course, it wasn’t a whistle, darling,” said Kay soothingly. “I keep telling you you’ve lots of time.”