“Aren't they taking us this week to Cap May?” “They're taking the yacht to Cape May!” corrected Mrs. Farrell; “not ME!” “The sea does not agree with her,” explained Farrell; “WE'RE going by automobile.” Mrs. Farrell now took up the wondrous tale. “It's a High Flyer, 1915 model,” she explained; “green, with white enamel leather inside, and red wheels outside. You can see it from the window.” Somewhat dazed, I stepped to the window and found you could see it from almost anywhere. It was as large as a freight car; and was entirely surrounded by taxi-starters, bellboys, and nurse-maids. The chauffeur, and a deputy chauffeur, in a green livery with patent-leather leggings, were frowning upon the mob. They possessed the hauteur of ambulance surgeons. I returned to my chair, and then rose hastily to ask if I could not offer Mr. Farrell some refreshment. “Mebbe later,” he said. Evidently he felt that as yet he had not sufficiently impressed me. “Harbor Castle,” he recited, “has eighteen bedrooms, billiard-room, music-room, art gallery and swimming-pool.” He shook his head. “And no one to use 'em but us. We had a boy.” He stopped, and for an instant, as though asking pardon, laid his hand upon the knee of Mrs. Farrell. “But he was taken when he was four, and none came since. My wife has a niece,” he added, “but----” “But,” interrupted Mrs. Farrell, “she was too high and mighty for plain folks, and now there is no one. We always took an interest in you because your name was Farrell. We were always reading of you in the papers. We have all your books, and a picture of you in the billiard-room. When folks ask me if we are any relation--sometimes I tell 'em we ARE.” As though challenging me to object, she paused. “It's quite possible,” I said hastily. And, in order to get rid of them, I added: “I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write to Ireland and----” Farrell shook his head firmly. “You don't need to write to Ireland,” he said, “for what we want.” “What DO you want?” I asked. “We want a SON,” said Farrell; “an adopted son. We want to adopt YOU!” “You want to WHAT?” I asked. To learn if Mrs. Farrell also was mad, I glanced toward her, but her expression was inscrutable. The face of the Irishman had grown purple. “And why not?” he demanded. “You are a famous young man, all right, and educated. But there's nothing about me I'm ashamed of! I'm worth five million dollars and I made every cent Of it myself--and I made it honest. You ask Dun or Bradstreet, ask----” I attempted to soothe him. “THAT'S not it, sir,” I explained. “It's a most generous offer, a most flattering, complimentary offer. But you don't know me. I don t know you. Choosing a son is a very----” “I've had you looked up,” announced Mrs. Farrell. “The Pinkertons give you a high rating. I hired 'em to trail you for six months.” I wanted to ask WHICH six months, but decided to let sleeping dogs lie. I shook my head. Politely but firmly I delivered my ultimatum.