At lunch time he asks me which of the Fifth Avenue photographers I think is the best. "Eh?" says I, grinnin'. "Thinkin' of havin' yourself mugged and sendin' the result to somebody in a silver frame?" "Well," says he draggy, "I--I've been meaning to have some pictures taken for several years, and now----" "Got you," says I. "But if you want something real swell let me tow you to a place I know of on Fifty-fifth." Honest, I wasn't thinking about the Maison Noir at the time or that it was just next door. In fact, it was Peyton himself who stops in front of the show window and grabs me by the arm. "I say!" says he, pointin' in at the exhibit. "See--see there." He's pointin' to a display of checked gingham frocks, blue and white and pink and white, with hats to match. "Yes," says I, "do look sort of familiar, don't they?" "Why," he goes on, "they're almost exactly like those of--of Lucy's; the same simple lines, the same material and everything." "Classy stuff," says I. "Come along, though. The picture place is next door, upstairs." Peyton still stands there gawpin'. "Such a coincidence," he's murmurin'. "I wonder, Torchy, if one could find out about how much they ask for such things in a place like this." "Easiest thing in the world," says I. "Just blow in and get 'em to give you quotations." "Oh, but I wouldn't dare do that," says he. "It would seem so--so----" "Not at all," says I. "As it happens, this joint is one where Vee does more or less shoppin', when she's feelin' flush, and I've often been with her. If you're curious we'll breeze in and get their prices." Peyton was right there with the curiosity, too. And the lady vamp with the long string of beads danglin' from her neck didn't seem to think it odd for us to be interested in checked ginghams. "Ah, yes-s-s!" says she, throwin' open the back doors of the show window. "Zey are great bargains, those. Marked down but las' week. Thees wan--m-m-m-m--only $68; but wiz ze hat also, $93." And the gasp that gets out of Peyton sounds like openin' an airbrake. "Nine-ty three dollars!" says he. "For a simple little thing like that? Why, that seems to be rather exorbitant!" "Mais non!" says the lady vamp, shruggin' her shoulders. "They are what you call simple, yes. But they are chic, too. One considers that. Las' week come a young lady from Atlanta who in one hour takes two dozen at once, and more next day. You see!" Peyton was beginning to see. But he wanted to be dead sure. "From Atlanta?" says he. "Not--not a--a Miss Vaughn?" "Mais oui!" says Madame, clappin' her hands enthusiastic. "The ver' one. You know her? Yes?" "I--I thought I did," says Peyton, sort of weak, as he starts for the door.