“Thank God!” Monty cried fervently. “I wondered if that telegraphing to people was just a ruse or not. Hooray, I feel I can eat and drink and be merrier than I’ve been for a month. I never want to hear about them again.” “I’m sorry, old man,” Denby said smiling, “but I shall have to ask you for them.” “Me?” Monty stammered. “Don’t joke, Steve.” “But you very kindly brought them over for me,” Denby returned mildly. “They’re in the right-hand shoe of a pair of buckskin tennis shoes. I put them there when I helped you to repack your trunk. Do you mind bringing them before I’ve finished dressing?” Monty looked at him reproachfully. “Sometimes I think I ought to have gone into the ministry. I’m getting a perfect horror of crime.” “You’re not a criminal,” Denby said. “You helped me out on the voyage, but here you are free to do as you like.” Monty set his jaw firmly. “I’m in it with you, Steve, till you’ve got the damned things where you want ’em, and you can’t prevent me, either.” When he brought the precious necklace back Denby calmly placed the pouch in his pocket. “Thanks, old man,” he said casually. “Now the fun begins.” “Fun!” Monty snorted. “Do you remember the classic remark of the frog who was pelted by small mischievous boys? ‘This may be the hell of a joke to you,’ said the frog, ‘but it’s death to me.’” “I’ve always been sorry for that frog,” Denby commented. “But, man alive, you are the frog,” Monty cried. “Oh, no,” Denby returned, making a tie that had no likeness to a vast butterfly. “Your frog hadn’t a ghost of a chance, and he knew it, while with me it’s an even chance. One oughtn’t to ask any more than that in these hard times.” He sauntered down the stairs cool and debonair to find Ethel Cartwright still looking listlessly across the green lawns. “Those gentle chimes,” he said, as the dinner-gong pealed out, “call the faithful to dinner. I wish it were in Paris, don’t you?” She pulled herself together and tried to smile as she had done before Taylor had dashed all her joy to the ground. “Aren’t you hungering for string-beans?” he asked, “and the hole in the table-cloth, and the gay old moon? But after all, what do they matter now? You’re here, and I’m hungry.” He offered her his arm. “Aren’t you hungry, too?” CHAPTER NINE Very much to Denby’s disappointment he found that he was not to take Ethel Cartwright in to dinner. Nora Rutledge fell to his lot, and although she was witty and sparkling, she shared none of those happy Parisian memories as did the girl his host had taken in. Plainly Nora was piqued. “I thought from what Monty told me you were really interesting,” she said. “One must never believe anything Monty says,” he observed. “It’s only his air of innocence that makes people think him honest. His flirtations on board ship were nothing short of scandalous and yet look at him now.”