Then I went to call up Moore. He answered the ’phone at once, and listened without a word while I told him of our adventures that night and the finding of the little book. When I had finished he whistled softly. “Look here, Clayton,” he said, “this thing is getting pretty serious. They had a whirl at me to-day. At least, somebody did their best to run over me twice this afternoon. I think we had better meet for once, if you can manage to get to me without being followed and I can get to you. I think you’d better bring Larry too. This is what I’ve doped out. You and Larry take a taxi and drive slowly through the Park from 59th Street and Fifth Avenue toward the 72nd Street gate, West Side. On the way you’ll stop and pick me up on an open space, if I am walking bareheaded. If not, do not stop, even if you see me. If I do not turn up or if my hat is on, it will mean that I have been followed, so don’t worry. But I think I can shake them off in the open. Will you do that?” “Of course I will,” I told him. “What time?” “About 2.30. Then, if we don’t meet, come back to your rooms and call me at about four. I’ll be waiting.” “All right, Moore, old man. I’ll do that. Good-night!” “Good-night.” So we rang off, and after slipping Vining’s little notebook under the blotter on my table, I went to bed, telling Larry to see that our front door was locked and the chain was up. But I did not get to sleep very quickly. Chapter X Mrs. Fawcette is Indiscreet The next morning, Friday, I woke and lay for a moment drowsily wondering as to the cause of a sort of vague excitement of which I was conscious. Then recollection of the events of the previous evening returned, and I jumped out of bed and yelled for Larry and my bath. Although it went against the grain with me, at first, Larry had quietly but firmly taken to himself the duties of valet, housemaid, cook and butler. As a general factotum he was a marvel of usefulness, but at first I had objected violently to being waited on hand and foot. Larry, however, had taken these rebuffs quite calmly and had gone his own sweet way, looking after my clothes, running my bath-water and bringing me tea in bed in the morning, and I had gradually drifted into this sort of a sybaritic existence through sheer laziness. Once or twice he had even tried to help me on with my clothes, but I had to draw the line somewhere, and he finally gave that up. Larry came in grinning as usual. He had a small tray in his hand, with a cup of tea and some bread and butter on it. For a short time in his early career he had been valet to an Irish lordling, and old habits stuck, it seemed. “Take that tea away, Larry,” I told him. “Is my bath ready? And what the hell do you mean by letting me sleep so late, you Irish billygoat? What time is it?” Larry’s face fell, not at the name I called him—he was used to that—but at the fate of the tea. But he set the tray down beside the bed.