J. Bayard tosses over a fancy business card printed in three colors and carryin' this inscription in old English letterin': AT THE SIGN OF THE BRASS CANDLESTICK Tea Room and Gift Shop Mr. Gerald Webb, Manager. "Oh, well," says I, "that ain't so bad. Must have run across a backer somewhere." "His sisters," says Steele. "He has five, and some of the four married ones are quite well to do. Then there is Evelyn, the old maid sister, who went in with him. It's from her I've found out so much about Gerald. Nice, refined, pleasant old maid; although somewhat plain featured. She tells me they have a shop at some seashore resort in summer,--Atlantic City, or the Pier,--and occasionally have quite a successful season. Then in the fall they open up again here. The last two summers, though, they've barely made expenses, and she fears that Gerald is becoming discouraged." "Well, what you beefin' about?" says I. "There's your chance, ain't it? Jump in and cheer him up. Go round every day and drink yourself full of tea. Lug along your friends--anything. Got the whole Gordon estate back of you, you know. And it's plain Pyramid had in mind squarin' accounts for that raw deal he handed Gerald years back, or he wouldn't have named him in the will. And if your dope is right, I judge there ought to be something nice comin' to him." "Of course, of course," says Steele. "But you see, McCabe, as an expert in altruism, I have reached the point where I no longer act hastily on crude conclusions. Possibly you will fail to understand, but now I take a certain pride in doing just the right thing in exactly the right way." "I knew you was developin' into some variety of nut," says I. "So that's it, eh? Well, go on." J. Bayard smiles indulgent and shrugs his shoulders. "For instance," says he, "this Gerald Webb seems to be one of those highly sensitive, delicately organized persons; somewhat effeminate in fact. He needs considerate, judicious handling." "Then why not present him with an inlaid dressin' table and a set of eyebrow pencils?" I suggest. Steele brushes that little persiflage aside too. "He's no doubt an idealist of some sort," says he, "a man with high hopes, ambitions. If I only knew what they were----" "Ain't tried askin' him, have you?" says I. "Certainly not!" says J. Bayard. "Those are things which such persons can rarely be induced to talk about. I've been studying him at close range, however, by dropping in now and then for a cup of tea and incidentally a chat with his sister; but to no effect. I can't seem to make him out. And I was wondering, Shorty, if you, in your rough and ready way----" "P.O.F.!" I breaks in. "What?" says Steele. "Please omit floral tributes," says I. "You was wonderin' if I couldn't what--size him up for you?" "Just that," says J. Bayard. "While your methods are not always of the subtlest, I must concede that at times your--er--native intuition----"