I turned to Arthurjean. "Honeychile," I asked, "did you by any chance, think to bring me some of the office brandy? I've been moving so fast for the last three days that I'm out of training." My secretary turned her back, gave a sort of dip-dive-and-wiggle and produced from God knows where a half pint bottle of what proved to be excellent brandy, well-warmed above room temperature. I heartlessly refused to notice Vail's pathetic signs of desperate thirst and passed the flask back to Arthurjean. "Thanks," I told her, "that just about saved my life." "Mr. Vail was all set that the doctors had hijacked you and were holding you for ransom," she remarked, taking a short but deep drink herself. "Seems like there's been a mistake." "Uh-uh!" I indicated strong disagreement. "I came here under my own power and am about to leave under the same and in my right mind." "Whoever said you weren't?" Vail demanded. "God! we'll sue them for libel." I shook my head. "It was the Secret Service and only God can sue them," I said. "They took a notion to have me thrown in the Washington asylum because they were sore at me on general principles. So I decided to beat them to the draw and produce a certificate of sanity." Vail looked at me with amusement. "Worst thing you could possibly do, old man," he informed me. "If you start going around showing people proof that you're not crazy, first thing you know you'll be in Matteawan. Now if you want to prove to anybody that you're really in your right mind, you'll try to do the right thing by this little girl here." In some bewilderment I looked at Arthurjean, whom nobody could accurately accuse of being little. "What are you driving at, Merry?" I asked. "I refer to my client, Miss Briggs," he replied with dignity. "We have strong written evidence of breach of promise." "Sugar-puss?" I turned to my secretary, "Don't tell me that you've shown my letters to this legal lout?" She nodded. "Sorry, angel, but a girl's got to take care of herself in this world. You remember where you wrote me, 'Be but mine and I shall buy you a porterhouse steak with mushrooms'." "It was onions, darling," I insisted. "Onions aren't breach of promise. Damn it! they're cause for divorce." "It was mushrooms," she repeated. "That was the same letter in which you promised me hearts of lettuce, and ice-cream and--" she broke down, sobbing with laughter. I pulled her face down to me and gave her a kiss. "You big slob," I told her, "all you think about, with democracy at the crossroads, is food. Take that shyster downstairs and wait for me. I'll be down as soon as I collect my certificate. Even if I can't wear it on my coat like a campaign-ribbon it will be nice to hang in my den alongside my Harvard B.A. diploma and the moose I didn't kill--it was the Indian guide but they don't count--in New Brunswick."