“I am afraid you are fibbing, Papa Cary,” she said. “And I am getting afraid of you, too. I fear instead of being a respectable, elderly gentleman, ready to give aid and protection to unprotected females, you are a gay old dog. “No, I can’t sell that pretty picture for a thousand dollars. It’s too cheap. It cost me too much pains to get it. And then, how do I know but that you will take it to your club, show it around to other gay old dogs, as your last conquest?” Mr. Cary grinned delightedly over being called a gay old dog, but shook his head and protested with his hands. “But come,” said the Brown Robin, as a servant entered from the rear. “Come to dinner all by our two selves.” She led the way, and Mr. Cary followed into a rear room, where a dinner table was laid. The dinner was a good one, and Mr. Cary evidently enjoyed it, for he ate heartily, getting quite gay over it. Of wine, however, he was sparing in use, though urged often to drink. When the dinner was over Mr. Cary renewed his efforts to get the photographic plate, but the Brown Robin was not to be cajoled into a bargain. She evaded in every way coming to close quarters, laughing and joking. Finally she put an end to it all by saying that she must go out, and that Papa Cary could accompany her a part of the way. She went to the upper part of the house, and while she was gone Mr. Cary seemed to show a most inexcusable curiosity as to the room he was left in and what it contained, for he examined everything in it, picking up a few things which he put in his pocket. When the Brown Robin returned she was dressed for the street. “Am I pretty enough to walk with you?” she asked. “I don’t know in which costume you are the prettiest,” replied Mr. Cary, “but there is a strange thing,” he continued. “I do not yet know your name.” “You shall call me Mrs. Clymer,” she said, as she led him out of the door. She walked with him up Lexington Avenue as far as Thirtieth Street, into which street she turned, going toward Fourth Avenue. She stopped before a certain house and looked at its front carefully. “Let us go in here,” she said. “What for?” “To look at it. It is empty. One of those furnished houses to rent. I like to look at them.” Mr. Cary followed her up the stoop. The door was opened by a caretaker who had seen them ascend the steps. Mrs. Clymer, if that was her name, was contented with looking at the parlors. She went out, and, walking up to Fourth Avenue, turned to the south, Mr. Cary obediently following her. At Twenty-third Street she turned the corner, going to a real estate office, where she entered into conversation with the broker. Mr. Cary, meantime, looked out of the window into the street. If he had known them, he would have recognized in the two men standing on the pavement near the door, Chick and Patsy. But the Brown Robin called him to her, saying: “I must have twenty-five dollars. I want to pay it to this man.”