"It's a wonder my father isn't wearing your trousers, Mr. Doxey. It would have been quite as easy, and I really think they'd fit him better than they fit you. Don't lose your temper, please. Good detectives never lose their tempers. Please remember that. Now, if you'll be good enough to cast your eyes upon that shameless person near the cabinet over there, you'll--" "Great Scott!" gasped Mr. Doxey, his eyes bulging. "That's right! Keep your eye on him. I don't know who your friend is, Mr. Doxey, but my father is temporarily inhabiting his trousers--and shoes. You must have slept soundly not to have been disturbed when Bellows took them off. You'll find--" "Come off!" growled Doxey. "The old man didn't come here without pants, did he? And if he had his own on, what in thunder was he trading with--" Bosworth held up his hand imperatively. "Good detectives don't discuss their deductions with--never mind! I sha'n't say it. Now, it may interest you to know that we are close personal friends of Mrs. Scoville. We--" "Don't haggle with the demmed scoundrel," protested Mr. Van Pycke, vigorously. "Now, don't get fresh--don't get fresh!" said Mr. Doxey, his fusty black mustache coming loose on one side and drooping over his lip. "Don't bite it!" cautioned Bosworth, hastily. Mr. Doxey stuck it back in place with a white kid paw of huge dimensions. "I am Bosworth Van Pycke, and this is my father, Mr. Van Dieman Van Pycke," said Bosworth, bowing very low. "Van Pycke? Wait a minute. I got a list of the guests here in my pocket. I'll see if you're among 'em. If you belong here, why ain't you out there eatin' with the rest of 'em?" Mr. Doxey looked up suspiciously from the paper he had taken from his coat pocket. "I don't like this pants gag. It sounds fishy." "Fishy?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke. "What the devil does he mean by that, Bosworth?" "It's his way of calling me a liar, dad, that's all." "Say, there ain't any Van Pyckes on this list. And this is the _correct_ list, too. The butler gave it to me himself. I--" Bosworth suddenly lost his playful manner. He was tired of the game. "That will do, Mr. Doxey. Be good enough to go back to your corner," he said coldly. "I mean it. Don't stand there glaring. It has no effect on me. I _am_ Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke. I don't blame you for protecting the jewels--even from Van Pyckes--but there's nothing more for you to do, so far as we are concerned. We are waiting for Mrs. Scoville and her guests. And, say, on your way back to your chair--or was it a couch?--be good enough to drape a table cover about the limbs of that unfortunate person with the bald head--and bald legs, I might add." Mr. Doxey looked from one to the other with interest, not to say curiosity. Something in the young man's manner carried conviction. "Are you the--the Buzzy Van Pycke who gave the supper for Carmen the other--" "I am," Bosworth interjected. "I didn't see you there, Mr. Doxey."