“Do!” said Lowry, turning to his desk with the air of a man dismissing a lot of troublesome business, and glad of it. “You will find that she is too ill to see a soul; utterly prostrated since last night. Will that hold you for a while, you uppity young shrimp?” CHAPTER XXI TONY’S REPORT Barrison often dined at a chop house in the Thirties, near his own rooms. He repaired thither to-night, after having telephoned his whereabouts to Tony Clay’s boarding house, with a message for that youth to come on to join him there if he could. As he sat lingeringly over one of the meals he liked best, he endeavored to forget the problems which had stabbed at him relentlessly all day. He wished that it were only from a professional angle that the business worried him; to his own uttermost disgust, he found an enormous mass of personal worry connected with it. He would like, for instance, to have been able to eliminate Miss Templeton. Or—would he? He was alarmed to find his condition so critical that he was not absolutely sure. He glanced up at last, uncertain whether with relief or disgust, to find Tony Clay wending his way toward him between tables. “Hello!” he said, with a very fine show of enthusiastic welcome. Tony bobbed an acknowledgment. When he was seated opposite Jim, he growled: “How doth the little butterfly Improve each shining hour, By sending other folks to spy, And bring to him more power! “What pretty things he learns to do, What merry games he beats! He lets the other fellow stew, While he sits still and eats!” Barrison could not help laughing, as he greeted him: “What do you suppose I’ve been doing? Sitting here ever since we parted? What are you going to eat, oh, faithful, good, and seemingly hungry servant?” “I want all the ham and eggs there are in the place, and the ham cut thick, and the eggs fried on both sides!” “You half-baked little ass!” remarked Jim affectionately. “Give your own order.” Tony ordered, with a vague yet spectacular carelessness which made Barrison roar. “Not awake yet, Tony?” he queried, when his young friend had committed himself to mushrooms and guinea hen after the ham and eggs. “Eh? Sure I’m awake! Say, you didn’t give me a job at all, oh, no!” “The point is, did you get it?” “Get it? You bet your life I got it. But, Jim, your hunch about that Golden Arms business was punk. There’s nothing doing there.” “No?” said Barrison. He tried to sound cool and casual, but it wasn’t much of a success; he felt a bit flat about it all. “Go ahead, Tony; suppose you tell me about it, eh?” Tony nodded, and straightened up at sight of the ham and eggs.