CHAPTER XVI Mrs. Pett takes precautions. Mrs. Pett, on leaving the luncheon table, had returned to the drawing-room to sit beside the six settee of her stricken child. She was troubled about Ogden. The poor lamb was not at all himself to-day. A bowl of clear soup, the mid-day meal prescribed by Dr. Briggenshaw, lay untasted at his side. She crossed the room softly and placed a cool hand on her son's aching brow. "'Oh, gee!' said Ogden, wearily. "'Are you feeling a little better, Oggy Darling?' "'No,' said Ogden, firmly. "'I'm feeling a lot worse. "'You haven't drunk your nice soup. Eat it to the cat!' "'Could you eat a nice bowl of bread and milk, precious?' "'Have a heart!' replied the sufferer.' Mrs. Pett returned to her seat, sorrowfully. It struck her as an odd coincidence that the poor child was nearly always like this on the morning after she had been entertaining guests. She put it down to the reaction from the excitement working on a highly strong temperament. To his present collapse the brutal behavior of Jerry Mitchell had, of course, contributed. Every drop of her maternal blood boiled with rage and horror whenever she permitted herself to contemplate the excesses of the late Jerry. She had always mistrusted the man. She had never liked his face, not merely on aesthetic grounds, but because she had seemed to detect in it a lurking savagery. How right events had proved this instinctive feelings! Mrs. Pett was not vulgar enough to describe the feeling even to herself as a hunch, but a hunch it had been. And, like every one whose hunches have proved correct, she was conscious in the midst of her grief of a certain complacency. It seemed to her that hers must be an intelligence and insight above the ordinary. The peace of the early afternoon settled upon the drawing-room. Mrs. Pett had taken up a book. Ogden, on the setee, breathed centurously. Faint snores proceeded from the basket in the corner where Ida, the Pomeranian, lay curled in refreshing sleep. Through the open window floated sounds of warmth and summer. Yeeling to the drowsy calm, Mrs. Pett was just nodding into a pleasant nap when the door opened and Lord Wisbeach came in. Lord Wisbeach had been doing some rapid thinking. Rapid thought is one of the essentials in the composition of men who are known as Gentleman Jack to the boys, and whose livelihood is won only by a series of arduous struggles against the forces of society and the machinations of Potter and his gang. Condensed into capsule form, his lordship's meditations during the minutes after he had left Jimmy in the dining-room amounted to the realization that the best mode of defense is attack. It is your man who knows how to play the bold game on occasion who wins. A duller schemer than Lord Wisbeach might have been content to be inactive after such a conversation as had just taken place between himself and Jimmy. His lordship, giving the matter the concentrated attention of his trained mind, had hit on a better plan, and yet come to the drawing-room now to put it into effect. His entrance shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Ida, who had been gurgling apoplectically, sprang snarling from the basket and made for the intruder open-mouthed. Her shrill barking rang through the room.  He hated and feared them. Many men of action have these idiosyncrasies. He got behind a chair and said, There, there! Ida, whose outburst was mere sound and fury, and who had no intention whatever of coming to blows, continued the demonstration from a safe distance, till Mrs. Pet, swooping down, picked her up and held her in her lap, where she continued to remain growling subdued defiance. Lord Wisbeach came out from behind his chair and sat down warily. Can I have a word with you, Mrs. Pet? Certainly, Lord Wisbeach. His lordship looked meaningly at Ogden. In private, you know. He then looked meaningly at Mrs. Pet. Ogden, darling, said Mrs. Pet, I think you had better go to your room and undress and get into bed. A little nice sleep might do you all the good in the world. With surprising docileity the boy rose. All right, he said. Poor Oggy is not at all well today, said Mrs. Pet when he was gone. He is very subject to these attacks. What do you want to tell me, Lord Wisbeach?  Mrs. Pet, you remember what I told you yesterday? Of course. Might I ask what you know of this man who has come here calling himself Jimmy Crocker? Mrs. Pet started. She remembered that she had used almost that very expression to Anne. Her suspicions, which had been lulled by the prompt recognition of the visitor by Skinner and Lord Wisbeach, returned. It is one of the effects of a successful hunch that it breeds other hunches. She had been right about Jerry Mitchell. Was she to be proved right about the self-styled Jimmy Crocker? You have seen your nephew, I believe? Never. But that man, said Lord Wisbeach impassively, is not your nephew. Mrs. Pet thrilled all down her spine. She had been right. I liked you, but I pretended to recognize him. Just so. For a purpose. I wanted to make him think that I suspected nothing. Then you think? Remember what I said to you yesterday? But Skinner, the butler, recognized him. Exactly. It goes to prove what I said about Skinner was correct. They are working together. The thing is self-evident. Look at it from your point of view. How simple it is. This man pretends to be an intimate acquaintance with Skinner. You take that as evidence of Skinner's honesty. Skinner recognizes this man. You take that as proof that this man is really your nephew. The fact that Skinner recognizes Jimmy Crocker, a man who is not Jimmy Crocker, condemns him. But why did you? I told you that I pretended to accept this man as the real Jimmy Crocker for a purpose. At present there is nothing you can do. Mere impersonation is not a crime. If I had exposed him when we met, you would have gained nothing beyond driving him from the house. Whereas if we wait, if we pretend to suspect nothing, we shall undoubtedly catch him red-handed in an attempt on your nephew's invention. You were sure that that is why he has come? What other reason could he have? I thought he might be trying to kidnap Ogden. Lord Whizbeach frowned thoughtfully. He had not taken this consideration into account. It is possible, he said. There have been several attempts made, have there not, to kidnap your son? At one time, said Mrs. Pat proudly, there was not a child in America who had to be more closely guarded. Why, the kidnappers had a special nickname for Oggy. They called him the Little Nugget. Of course, then, it is quite possible that that may be the man's object. In any case, our course must be the same. We must watch every move he makes. He paused. I could help. Pardon my suggesting it. I could help a great deal more if you were to invite me to live in the house. You were kind enough to ask me to visit you in the country, but it will be two weeks before you go to the country, and in those two weeks. You must come here at once, Lord Whizbeach, to-night, to-day. I think that would be the best plan. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for all you are doing. You have been so kind to me, Mrs. Pat, said Lord Whizbeach with feeling, that it is surely only right that I should try to make some return. Let us leave it at this, then. I will come here to-night and will make it my business to watch these two men. I will go and pack my things and have them sent here. It is wonderful of you, Lord Whizbeach. Not at all, replied his Lordship. It will be a pleasure. He held out his hand, drawing it back rapidly as the dog Ida made a snap at it. Substituting a long range leave-taking for the more intimate farewell, he left the room. When he had gone, Mrs. Pat remained for some minutes thinking. She was aflame with excitement. She had a sensational mind, and it had absorbed Lord Whizbeach's revelations eagerly. Her admiration for his Lordship was intense, and she trusted him utterly. The only doubt that occurred to her was whether, with the best intentions in the world, he would be able unassisted to foil a pair of schemers so distant from each other geographically as the man who called himself Jimmy Crocker and the man who called himself Skinner. That was a point on which they had not touched, the fact that one impostor was above the stairs, the other below. It seemed to Mrs. Pat impossible that Lord Whizbeach, for all his zeal, could watch Skinner without neglecting Jimmy, or foil Jimmy without taking his attention off Skinner. It was manifestly a situation that called for allies. She felt that she must have further assistance. To Mrs. Pat, doubtless owing to her hobby of writing sensational fiction, there was a magic in the word detective which was shared by no other word in the language. She loved detectives. Their keen eyes, their quiet smiles, their derby hats. When they came on the stage, she leaned forward in her orchestra chair. When they entered her own stories, she always wrote with a greater zest. It is not too much to say that she had an almost spiritual attachment for detectives, and the idea of neglecting to employ one in real life, now that circumstances had combined to render his advent so necessary, struck her as both rash and inartistic. In the old days, when Ogden had been kidnapped, the only thing which had brought her bomb had been the daily interviews with the detectives. She ached to telephone for one now. The only consideration that kept her back was a regard for Lord Whizbeach's feelings. He had been so kind and so shrewd that to suggest reinforcing him with outside assistance must infallibly wound him deeply. And yet the situation demanded the services of a trained specialist. Lord Whizbeach had borne himself during their recent conversation in such a manner as to leave no doubt that he considered himself adequate to deal with the matter single-handed. But admirable though he was, he was not a professional exponent of the art of espionage. He needed to be helped in spite of himself. A happy solution struck Mrs. Pet. There was no need to tell him. She could combine the installation of a detective with the nicest respect of her ally's feelings by the simple process of engaging one without telling Lord Whizbeach anything about it. The telephone stood at her elbow, concealed, at the express request of the interior decorator who had designed the room, in the interior of what looked to the casual eye like a stuffed owl. On a table near at hand, handsomely bound in Morocco to resemble a complete works of Shakespeare, was the telephone book. Mrs. Pet hesitated no longer. She had forgotten the address of the detective agency which she had employed on the occasion of the kidnapping of Ogden, but she remembered the name and also the name of the delightfully sympathetic manager or proprietor, or whatever he was, who had listened to her troubles then. She unhooked the receiver and gave a number. I want to speak to Mr. Sturges, she said. Oh, Mr. Sturges, said Mrs. Pet. I wonder if you could possibly run up here. Yes, now. This is Mrs. Peter Pet speaking. You remember we met some years ago when I was Mrs. Ford. Yes, the mother of Ogden, Ford. I want to consult. You will come up at once? Thank you so much. Goodbye." Mrs. Pet hung up the receiver. End of CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. Miss Trimble, Detective. Downstairs in the dining-room, Jimmy was smoking cigarettes and reviewing in his mind the peculiarities of the situation when Anne came in. Oh, there you are, said Anne. I thought you must have gone upstairs. I have been having a delightful and entertaining conversation with my old chum, Lord Whizbeach. Good gracious! What about? Oh, this and that. Not about old times. No, we did not touch upon old times. Does he still believe that you are Jimmy Crocker? I'm so nervous, said Anne, that I can hardly speak. I shouldn't be nervous, said Jimmy encouragingly. I don't see how things could be going better. That's what makes me nervous. Our luck is too good to last. We are taking such risks. It would have been bad enough without Skinner and Lord Whizbeach. At any moment you may make some fatal slip. Thank goodness, Aunt Nesta's suspicions have been squashed for the time being now that Skinner and Lord Whizbeach have accepted you as genuine. But then you have only seen them for a few minutes. When they have been with you a little longer they may get suspicious themselves. I can't imagine how you managed to keep it up with Lord Whizbeach. I should have thought he would be certain to say something about the time when you were supposed to be friends in London. We simply mustn't strain our luck. I want you to go straight to Aunt Nesta now and ask her to let Jerry come back. You still refuse to let me take Jerry's place? Of course I do. You will find Aunt Nesta upstairs. Very well. But suppose I can't persuade her to forgive Jerry. I think she is certain to do anything you ask. You saw how friendly she was to you at lunch. I don't see how anything can have happened since lunch to change her. Very well. I'll go to her now. And when you have seen her, go to the library and wait for me. It's the second room along the passage outside here. I have promised to drive Lord Whizbeach down to his hotel in my car. I met him outside just now and he tells me Aunt Nesta has invited him to stay here, so he wants to go and get his things ready. I shat be twenty minutes. I shall come straight back. Jimmy found himself vaguely disquieted by this piece of information. Lord Whizbeach is coming to stay here? Yes, why? Oh, nothing. Well, I'll go and see Mrs. Pet. No traces of the disturbance which had temporarily ruffled the piece of the drawing-room were to be observed when Jimmy reached it. The receiver of the telephone was back on its hook. Mrs. Pet back in her chair, the dog Ida back in her basket. Mrs. Pet, her mind at ease now that she had taken the step of summoning Mr. Sturges, was reading a book, one of her own, and was absorbed in it. The dog Ida slumbered noisily. The sight of Jimmy, however, roused Mrs. Pet from her literary calm. To her eye, after what Lord Whizbeach had revealed, there was something sinister in the very way in which he walked into the room. He made her flesh creep. In a society thug, mobs and stiffien, $1.35 net, all rites of translation reserved, including the Scandinavian, she had portrayed just such a man. Smooth, specious, and formidable. Instinctively, as she watched Jimmy, her mind went back to the perfectly rotten behavior of her own Marsden Tuke. It was only in the last chapter but one that they managed to fought his outrageous machinations. And it seemed to her that here was Tuke in the flesh. She had pictured him, she remembered, as a man of agreeable exterior, that better calculated to deceive and undo the virtuous. And the fact that Jimmy was a presentable looking young man only made him appear vile in her eyes. In a word, she could hardly have been in a less suitable frame of mind to receive graciously any kind of request from him. She would have suspected ulterior motives if he had asked her the time. Jimmy did not know this. He thought that she eyed him a trifle frostily, but he did not attribute this to any suspicion of him. He tried to ingratiate himself by smiling pleasantly. He could not have made a worse move. Marsden Tuke's pleasant smile had been his deadliest weapon. Under its influence deluded people had trusted him alone with their jewellery and what not. At Nesta, said Jimmy, I wonder if I might ask you a personal favor. Mrs. Petch shuddered at the glibness with which he brought out the familiar name. This was super Tuke. Marsden himself, scoundrel as he was, could not have called her at Nesta as smoothly as that. Yes, she said at last. She found it difficult to speak. I happened to meet an old friend of mine this morning. He was very sorry for himself. It appears that, for excellent reasons, of course, you had dismissed him. I mean Jerry Mitchell. Mrs. Petch was now absolutely appalled. The conspiracy seemed to grow more complicated every moment. Already its ramifications embraced this man before her, a trusted butler, and her husband's late physical instructor. Who could say where it would end? She had never liked Jerry Mitchell, but she had never suspected him of being a conspirator. Yet if this man who called himself Jimmy Crocker was an old friend of his, how could he be anything else? Mitchell, Jimmy went on, unconscious of the emotions which his every word was arousing in his hearer's bosom, told me about what happened yesterday. He is very depressed. He said he could not think how he happened to behave in such an abominable way. He entreated me to put in a word for him with you. He begged me to tell you how he regretted the brutal assault, and asked me to mention the fact that his record had hitherto been blameless. Jimmy paused. He was getting no encouragement, and seemed to be making no impression whatever. Mrs. Petch was sitting bolt upright in her chair in a stiffly defensive sort of way. She had the appearance of being absolutely untouched by his eloquence. In fact, he concluded lamely, he is very sorry. There was silence for a moment. How do you come to know Mitchell? asked Mrs. Petch. We knew each other when I was over here working on the Chronicle. I saw him fight once or twice. He is an excellent fellow, and used to have a right swing that was a pippin. I should say extremely excellent. Brought it up from the floor, you know. I strongly object to prize fighters, said Mrs. Petch, and I was opposed to Mitchell coming into the house from the first. You wouldn't let him come back, I suppose, queried Jimmy tentatively. I would not. I would not dream of such a thing.  If he has a spark of humanity, I have no doubt of it. Jimmy paused. This thing was not coming out as well as it might have done. He feared that for once in her life and was about to be denied something on which she had set her heart. The reflection that this would be extremely good for her competed for precedence in his mind with the reflection that she would probably blame him for the failure, which would be unpleasant. He is very fond of Ogden, really. Hmm, said Mrs. Petch. I think the heat must have made him irritable. In his normal state he would not strike a lamb. I've known him to do it. Do what? Not strike lambs. Ish, said Mrs. Petch. The first time Jimmy had ever heard that remarkable monosyllable proceed from human lips. He took it, lately, to be intended to convey disapproval, skepticism, and annoyance. He was convinced that this mission was going to be one of his failures. Then I may tell him, he said, that it's all right. That what is all right? That he may come back here? Certainly not. Mrs. Petch was not a timid woman, but she could not restrain a shudder as she watched the plot unfold before her eyes. Her gratitude towards Lord Whizbeach at this point in the proceedings almost became hero worship. If it had not been for him and his revelations concerning this man before her, she would certainly have yielded to the request that Jerry Mitchell be allowed to return to the house. Much as she disliked Jerry, she had been feeling so triumphant at the thought of Jimmy Crocker coming to her in spite of his stepmother's wishes, and so pleased at having unexpectedly got her own way, that she could have denied him nothing that he might have cared to ask. But now it was as if, herself unseen, she were looking on at a gang of conspirators hatching some plot. She was in the strong strategic position of the person who is apparently deceived, but in reality knows all. For a moment she considered the question of admitting Jerry to the house. Evidently his presence was necessary to the consummation of the plot, whatever it might be, and it occurred to her that it might be as well, on the principle of giving the schemers enough rope to hang themselves with, to let him come back and play his part. Then she reflected that, with the self-styled Jimmy Crocker as well as the fraudulent skinner in the house, Lord Whizbeach and the detective would have their hands quite full enough. It would be foolish to complicate matters. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Mr. Sturges would be arriving soon, if he had really started at once from his office as he had promised. She drew comfort from the imminence of his coming. It would be pleasant to put herself in the hands of an expert. Jimmy had paused, midway to the door, and was standing there as if reluctant to accept her answer to his plea. It would never occur again, what happened yesterday, I mean, you need not be afraid of that. I am not afraid of that," responded Mrs. Pett tartly. If you had seen him when I did... When did you? You landed from the boat this morning. You went to Mr. Pett's office and then came straight up here with him. I am interested to know when did you see Mitchell? She regretted this thrust a little, for she felt it might put the man on his guard by showing that she suspected something, but she could not resist it, and it pleased her to see that her companion was momentarily confused. I met him when I was going for my luggage, said Jimmy. It was just the way Marsden Tuke would have got out of it. Tuke was always wriggling out of corners like that. Mrs. Pett's horror of Jimmy grew. I told him, of course, said Jimmy, that you had very kindly invited me to stay with you, and he told me all about his trouble and implored me to plead for him. If you had seen him when I did, all gloom and repentance, you would have been sorry for him. Your Woman's Heart Whatever Jimmy was about to say regarding Mrs. Pett's woman's heart was interrupted by the opening of the door and the deep respectful voice of Mr. Crocker. Mr. Sturges The detective entered briskly as if time were money with him, as indeed it was, for the international detective agency, of which he was the proprietor, did a thriving business. He was a gaunt, hungry-looking man of about fifty, with sunken eyes and thin lips. It was his habit to dress in the height of fashion, for one of his favorite axioms was that a man might be a detective and still look a gentleman, and his appearance was that of the individual usually described as popular clubman. That is to say, he looked like a floor-walker taking a Sunday stroll. His prosperous exterior deceived Jimmy satisfactorily, and the latter left the room little thinking that the visitor was anything but an ordinary caller. The detective glanced keenly at him as he passed. He made a practice of glancing keenly at nearly everything. It cost nothing and impressed clients.  Mr. Sturges sat down, pulled up the knees of his trousers that half-inch which keeps them from bagging and so preserves the gentleness of the appearance and glanced keenly at Mrs. Pett. Who was that young man who just went out? It is about him that I wish to consult you, Mr. Sturges. Mr. Sturges leaned back and placed the tips of his fingers together. Tell me how he comes to be here. He pretends that he is my nephew, James Crocker. Your nephew? Have you never seen your nephew? Never. I ought to tell you that a few years ago my sister married for the second time. I disapproved of the marriage and refused to see her husband or his son. He was a widower. A few weeks ago, for private reasons, I went over to England where they are living and asked my sister to let the boy come here to work in my husband's office. She refused and my husband and I returned to New York. This morning I was astonished to get a telephone call from Mr. Pett from his office to say that James Crocker had unexpectedly arrived after all and was then at the office. They came up here and the young man seemed quite genuine. Indeed, he had an offensive jocularity which would be quite in keeping with the character of the real James Crocker, from what I have heard of him. Mr. Sturges nodded. Know what you mean. Saw that thing in the paper. He said briefly. Yes? Now, it is very curious, but almost from the start I was uneasy. When I say that the young man seemed genuine, I mean that he completely deceived my husband and my niece, who lives with us. But I had reasons, which I need not go into now for being on my guard, and I was suspicious. What aroused my suspicions was the fact that my husband thought that he remembered this young man as a fellow traveller of ours on the Atlantic on our return voyage, while he claimed to have landed that morning on the Caronia. You are certain of that, Mrs. Pett? He stated positively that he had landed this morning? Yes, quite positively. Unfortunately, I myself had no chance of judging the truth of what he said, as I am such a bad sailor that I was seldom out of my stateroom from beginning to end of the voyage. However, as I say, I was suspicious. I did not see how I could confirm my suspicions, until I remembered that my new butler, Skinner, had come straight from my sister's house. That is the man who just admitted me? Exactly. He entered my employment only a few days ago, having come direct from London. I decided to wait until Skinner should meet this young man. Of course, when he first came into the house, he was with my husband, who opened the door with his key so that they did not meet then. I understand, said Mr. Sturges, glancing keenly at the dog Ida, who had risen and was sniffing at his ankles. You thought that if Skinner recognized this young man, it would be proof of his identity? Exactly. Did he recognize him? Yes, but wait, I have not finished. He recognized him, and for the moment I was satisfied. But I had had my suspicions of Skinner, too. I ought to tell you that I had been warned against him by a great friend of mine, Lord Whizbeach, an English peer whom we have known intimately for a very long time. He is one of the Shropshire Whizbeaches, you know. No doubt, said Mr. Sturges. Lord Whizbeach used to be intimate with the real Jimmy Crocker. He came to lunch today and met this imposter. He pretended to recognize him in order to put him off his guard, but after lunch he came to me here and told me that in reality he had never seen him before in his life, and that whoever else he might be he was certainly not James Crocker, my nephew. She broke off and looked at Mr. Sturges expectantly. The detective smiled a quiet smile. And even that is not all. There is another thing. Mr. Pett used to employ as a physical instructor a man named Jerry Mitchell. Yesterday I dismissed him for reasons it is not necessary to go into. Today, just as you arrived in fact, the man who calls himself Jimmy Crocker was begging me to allow Mitchell to return to the house and resume his work here. Does that not strike you as suspicious, Mr. Sturges? The detective closed his eyes and smiled his quiet smile again. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Mrs. Pett. It's pretty a case as I've come across in years, he said. Mrs. Pett, let me tell you something. It is one of my peculiarities that I never forget a face. You say that this young man pretends to have landed this morning from the Caronia? Well, I saw him myself more than a week ago in a Broadway café. You did? Talking to Jerry Mitchell. I know Mitchell well by sight. Mrs. Pett uttered an exclamation. And this butler of yours, Skinner, shall I tell you something about him? You perhaps know that when the big detective agencies, Andersons and the others, are approached in the matter of tracing a man who is wanted for anything, they sometimes ask the smaller agencies like my own to work in with them. It saves time and widens the field of operations. We are very glad to do Andersons' service and Andersons are big enough to be able to afford to let us do it. Now a few days ago a friend of mine in Andersons came to me with a sheaf of photographs which have been sent to them from London. Whether some private client in London or from Scotland Yard, I do not know. Nor do I know why the original of the photograph was wanted, but Andersons have been asked to trace him and make a report. My peculiar gift for remembering faces has enabled me to oblige the Andersons people once or twice before in this way. I studied the photographs very carefully and kept two of them for reference. I have one with me now. He felt in his pockets. Do you recognize it? Mrs. Pett stared at the photograph. It was the presentiment of a stout, good-humored man of middle age who solemn gaze dwelt on the middle distance in that fixed way at which a man achieves only in photographs. Skinner! Exactly, said Mr. Sturgis, taking the photograph from her and putting it back in his pocket. I recognized him directly. He opened the door to me. But I am almost certain that Skinner is the man who let me in when I called on my sister in London. Almost, repeated the detective. Did you observe him very closely? No, I suppose I did not. The type is a very common one. It would be very easy indeed for a clever crook to make himself up as your sister's butler closely enough to deceive anyone who had only seen the original once and for a short time then. What their game is, I could not say at present, but, taking everything into consideration, there can be no doubt whatever that the man who calls himself your nephew and the man who calls himself your sister's butler are working together, and that Jerry Mitchell is working in with them. As I say, I cannot tell you what they are after at present, but there is no doubt that your unexpected dismissal of Mitchell must have upset their plans. That would account for the eagerness to get him back into the house again. Lord Wisbeech thought that they were trying to steal my nephew's explosive. Perhaps you have read in the newspapers that my nephew, Goldie Partridge, has completed an explosive which is more powerful than any at present known. His father, you have heard of him, of course, Dwight Partridge. Mr. Sturges nodded. His father was working on it at the time of his death, and Willie has gone on with his experiments where he left off. Today at lunch he showed us a test to full of the explosive. He put it in my husband's safe in the library. Lord Wisbeech is convinced that these scoundrels are trying to steal this, but I cannot help feeling that this is another of those attempts to kidnap my son Ogden. What do you think? It is impossible to say at this stage of the proceedings. All we can tell is that there is some plot going on. You refused, of course, to allow Mitchell to come back to the house. Yes, you think that was wise? Undoubtedly. If his absence did not handicap them, they would not be so anxious to have him on the spot. What shall we do? You wish me to undertake the case? Of course. Mr. Sturges frowned thoughtfully. It would be useless for me to come here myself. By bad luck the man who pretends to be your nephew has seen me.  He would be on his guard. He pondered with closed eyes. Miss Trimble, he exclaimed. I beg your pardon. You want Miss Trimble. She is the smartest worker in my office. This is precisely the type of case she could handle to perfection. A woman, said Mrs. Pat doubtfully. A woman in a thousand, said Mr. Sturges. A woman in a million. What physically would a woman be? Miss Trimble knows more about Jujitsu than the Japanese professor who taught her. At one time she was a strong woman in small-time vaudeville. She is an expert revolver shot. I am not worrying about Miss Trimble's capacity to do the work. I am only wondering in what capacity would be best for her to enter the house. Have you a vacancy for a parlor maid? I could make one. Do so at once. Miss Trimble is at her best as a parlor maid. She handled the Marling divorce case in that capacity. Have you a telephone in the room? Mrs. Pat opened the stuffed owl. The detective got in touch with his office. Mr. Sturges speaking. Tell Miss Trimble to come to the phone. Miss Trimble, I am speaking from Mrs. Pat's on Riverside Drive. You know the house? I want you to come up at once, take a taxi, go to the back door, and ask to see Mrs. Pat. Say you have come about getting a place here as a maid. Understand? Right. Say listen, Miss Trimble. Hello? Yes, don't hang up for a moment. Do you remember those photographs I showed you yesterday? Yes, the photographs from Anderson's. I found the man. He's the butler here. Take a look at him when you get to the house.  He hung up the receiver. I think I'd better go now, Mrs. Pat. It would not do for me to be here while these fellows are on their guard. I can safely leave this matter to Miss Trimble. I wish you good afternoon. After he had gone, Mrs. Pat vainly endeavored to interest herself again in her book, but in competition with the sensations of life, fiction, even though she had written it herself, had lost its power in grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble must be walking to the house instead of juring thither in a taxi cab. But a glance at the clock assured her that only five minutes had elapsed since the detective's departure. She went to the window and looked out. She was hopelessly restless. At last a taxi cab stopped at the corner, and a young woman got out and walked towards the house. If this were Miss Trimble, she certainly looked capable. She was a stumpy, square-shouldered person, and even at that distance it was possible to perceive that she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination. The next moment she had turned down the side street in the direction of the back premises of Mrs. Pat's house, and a few minutes later Mr. Crocker presented himself. A young person wishes to see you, madam. A young person of the name of Trimble. A pang passed through Mrs. Pat as she listened to his measured tones. It was tragic that so perfect a butler should be a scoundrel. She says that you desired her to call in connection with a situation. Show her up here, Skinner. She is the new parlor maid. I will send her down to you when I have finished speaking to her. Very good, madam. There seemed to Mrs. Pat to be a faint touch of defiance in Miss Trimble's manner as she entered the room. The fact was that Miss Trimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property, and rich people's houses always affected her adversely. Mr. Crocker retired, closing the door gently behind him. A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pat's visitor as she looked round at the achievements of the interior decorator, who had lavished his art unsparingly in this particular room. At this close range she more than fulfilled the promise of that distant view which Mrs. Pat had had of her from the window. Her face was not only shrewd and determined, it was menacing. She had thick eyebrows, from beneath which small glittering eyes looked out like dangerous beasts in undergrowth. And the impressive effect of these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eye looked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort of roving commission, and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs. Pat with a gimlet stare, examining the ceiling. As to the rest of the appearance of this remarkable woman, her nose was stubby and aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly forbidding look of the closed door of a subway express when you have just missed the train. It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury. Mrs. Pat, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curious weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much deadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered, and came near feeling a half pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this dynamic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to open the conversation. Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She always preferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, and words flew out as if shot from a machine gun. As far as Mrs. Pat could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part her teeth, preferring to speak with them clenched. This gave an additional touch of menace to her speech. Afternoon, said Miss Trimble, and Miss Pat backed convulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if somebody had thrown a brick at her. Good afternoon, she said faintly. Glad to meet you, Mrs. Pat. Mr. Sturds sent me up. Say you had a job for me. Gamer squigs good. I beg your pardon? Squig is a good. Got a slow taxi. Oh, yes. Miss Trimble's ride-eye flashed about the room like a search light, and she kept the other hypnotically on her companion's face. Was trouble. The ride-eye rested for a moment on a magnificent carreau over the mantelpiece, and she sniffed again. Not surprised you have trouble. Ah, rich people have trouble. Nothing to do with their time except getting to trouble. She frowned disapprovingly at a canoletto. You, ah, appear to dislike the rich, said Mrs. Pat, as nearly in her grand manner as she could contrive. Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been a small foul, and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed it flat. Hey to him, sojalist! I beg your pardon? said Mrs. Pat humbly. This woman was beginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent. Sojalist! No use for idle rich. Ever read Bernard Shaw? Huh? Or Upton Sinclair? Huh? Read him. Make you think a bit. Well, you haven't told me what's trouble. Mrs. Pat was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturges. In a courier which had had more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious, she had never been confronted with a detective like this. The galling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged a detective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not for suavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you through clenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money than one who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, is incompetent. And Mrs. Pat, like most other people, subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is, the more efficient he must be. It is but rarely that anyone is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed down her resentment at her visitor's tone and tried to concentrate her mind on the fact that this was a business matter and that what she wanted was results rather than fair words. She found it easier to do this when looking at the other's face. It was a capable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise of action. Miss Trimble, having ceased temporarily to speak, her mouth was in repose, and when her mouth was in repose it looked more efficient than anything else of its size and existence. I want you, said Mrs. Pat, to come here and watch some men. Men, thought so. Whether's trouble, always men the bottom of it. You do not like men? Hate them, suffragist. She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pat. Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow. You sport her the cause? Mrs. Pat was an anti-suffragist, but, though she held strong opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that moment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme. A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be my nephew James Crocker. He is an imposter. I want you to watch him very carefully. Was his game? I do not know. Personally, I think he is here to kidnap my son Ogden. I'll fix him, said the fair Trimble confidently. Say, that butler of yours? He's a crook. Mrs. Pat opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent at her work. Have you found that out already? Directly saw him. Miss Trimble opened her purse. Got one of these photographs here. Brought it from the office. He's the man that's wanted, all right. Mr. Sturges and I both think he is working with the other man, the one who pretends to be my nephew. Sure, I'll fix him. She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch with vicious emphasis. There is another possibility, said Mrs. Pat. My nephew, Mr. William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it is quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it. Sure, men'll do anything. If you put all the men of the world in the cooler, wouldn't be any more crime. She gloured at the dog Ida, who had risen from the basket and removing the last remains of sleep from her sister in a series of calisthenics of her own invention as if she suspected her of masculinity. Mrs. Pat could not help wondering what tragedy in the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would likely be deceived by man. Still less the appearance of one who man, unless shortsighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would go out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mystery over in her mind when her visitor spoke. Well, give me the rest of the dope, said Miss Trimble. I beg your pardon. More facts. Spell them. Oh, I understand, said Mrs. Pat hastily, and embarked on a brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her to desire skilled assistance. Lord Wisvech, said Miss Trimble, breaking the story, who's he? A very great friend of ours.  He's all right, huh? Not a crook, huh? Of course he is not, said Mrs. Pat, indignantly. He's a great friend of mine. All right, well, I guess that's about all, huh? I'll be going downstairs and starting in. You can come here immediately? Sure. Got part of her maid rig round at my boarding-house, round corner. Come back with it in ten minutes. Same dress I used when I was working on the Marling divorce case. Do you know the Marlings? Idle rich, bound to get in trouble. Fixed him. Well, good-bye. Must be going. No time to waste. Mrs. Pat leaned back fatally in her chair. She felt overcome. Downstairs, on her way out, Miss Trimble had paused in the hall to inspect a fine statue which stood at the foot of the stairs. It was a noble work of art, but it seemed to displease her. She snorted. Idle rich, she muttered scornfully. Brrr! The portly form of Mr. Crocker loomed up from the direction of the back stairs. She fixed her left eye on him piercingly. Mr. Crocker met it and quailed. He had that consciousness of guilt which philosophers tell is the worst drawback to crime. Why this woman's gaze should disturb him so thoroughly he could not have said. She was a perfect stranger to him. She could know nothing about him. Yet he quailed. Say, said Mrs. Trimble, I'm coming here as parlour-maid. Oh, ah! said Mr. Crocker feebly. Grrr! observed Miss Trimble and departed. End of Chapter 17 CHAPTER XVIII. OF PICCADILLI GYM. by P. G. Whithouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. PICCADILLI GYM. CHAPTER XVIII. THE VOICE FROM THE PAST. The library, whither Jimmy had made his way after leaving Mrs. Pet, was a large room on the ground floor looking out on the street which ran parallel to the south side of the house. It had French windows opening onto a strip of lawn which ended in a high stone wall with a small gate in it. The general effect of these things being to create a resemblance to a country house rather than to one in the center of the city. Mr. Pet's town residence was full of these surprises. In one corner of the room a massive safe had been led into the wall, striking a note of incongruity, for the remainder of the wall space was completely covered with volumes of all sorts and sizes, which filled the shelves and overflowed into a small gallery, reached by a short flight of stairs and running along the north side of the room over the door. Jimmy cast a glance at the safe, behind the steel doors of which he presumed the test tube of partridgeite which Willie had carried from the luncheon table lay hid, then transferred his attention to the shelves. A cursory inspection of these revealed nothing which gave promise of wiling away entertainingly the moments which must elapse before the return of Anne. Jimmy's taste in literature lay in the direction of the lighter kind of modern fiction, and Mr. Pet did not appear to possess a single volume that had been written later than the eighteenth century, and mostly poetry at that. He turned to the writing desk near the window, on which he had caught side of a standing shelf full of books of a more modern aspect. He picked one up at random and opened it. He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. This man Pet appeared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would never have suspected it to look at him. Jimmy had just resigned himself, after another glance at the shelf, to a bookless vigil, when his eye was caught by a name on the cover of the last in the row so unexpected that he had to look again to verify the discovery. He had been perfectly right. There it was in gold letters. The Lonely Heart by Anne Chester. He extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Even now he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair the benefit of the doubt and assumed that someone else of the same name had written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy's character, one of his many defects, that he loathed and scorned minor poetry and considered minor poets especially when feminine and unnecessary affliction. He declined to believe that Anne, his Anne, a girl full of the finest traits of character, the girl who had been capable of encouraging a comparative stranger to break the law by impersonating her cousin Jimmy Crocker, could also be capable of writing the Lonely Heart and other poems. He skimmed through the first one he came across and shuddered. It was pure slush. It was the sort of stuff they fill up pages with in the magazines when the detective story did not run long enough. It was the sort of stuff which long-haired blighters read alone to other long-haired blighters in English suburban drawing-rooms. It was the sort of stuff which, to be brief, gave him the willies. No, it could not be Anne who had written it. The next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. There was an inscription on the title page. To my dearest Uncle Peter, with love from the author, Anne Chester. The room seemed real before Jimmy's eyes. He felt as if a friend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings.  For one moment, in which time stood still, his devotion to Anne wobbled. It was as if he had found her out in some terrible crime that revealed unsuspected flaws in her hitherto ideal character. Then his eye fell upon the date of the title page, and a strong spasm of relief shook him. The clouds rolled away, and he loved her still. This frightful volume had been published five years ago. A wave of pity swept over Jimmy. He did not blame her now. She had been a mere child five years ago, scarcely old enough to distinguish right from wrong. You couldn't blame her for writing sentimental verse at that age. Why, at a similar stage in his own career, he had wanted to be a vaudeville singer. Everything must be excused to youth. It was with a tender glow of affectionate forgiveness that he turned the pages. As he did so, a curious thing happened to him. He began to have that feeling, which everyone has experienced at some time or another, that he had done this very thing before. He was almost convinced that this was not the first time he had seen that poem on page 27 entitled, A Lament. Why, some of the lines seemed extraordinarily familiar. The people who understood these things explained this phenomenon he believed by some stuff about the cells of the brain working simultaneously or something. Something about cells, anyway. We suppose that that must be it. But that was not it. The feeling that he had read all this before grew instead of vanishing, as is generally the way on these occasions. He had read this stuff before. He was certain of it. But when, and where, and above all, why? Surely he had not done it from choice. It was the total impossibility of his having done it from choice that led his memory in the right direction. There had only been a year or so in his life when he had been obliged to read things which he would not have read of his own free will, and that had been when he worked on the Chronicle. Could it have been that they had given him this book of poems to review? Or... And then memory, in its usual eccentric way, having taken all this time to make the first part of the journey, finished the rest of it with one lightning swoop, and he knew. And with the illumination came dismay. Worse than dismay. Horror. Gosh! said Jimmy. He knew now why he had thought on the occasion of their first meeting in London that he had seen hair like Anne's before. The mist rolled away and he saw everything clear and stark. He knew what had happened at that meeting five years before, to which she had so mysteriously eluded. He knew what she had met that evening on the boat when she had charged one Jimmy Crocker with having cured her of sentiment. A cold sweat sprang into being about his temples. He could remember that interview now as clearly as if it had happened five minutes ago instead of five years. He could recall the article for the Sunday Chronicle which he had written from the interview, and the ghoulish gusto with which he had written it. He had had a boy's undisciplined sense of humour in those days, the sense of humour which riots like a young colt, careless of what it bruises and crushes. He shuddered at the recollection of the things he had hammered out so gleefully on his typewriter down at the Chronicle office. He found himself recoiling in disgust from the man he had been, the man who could have done a wanton thing like that without compunction or Ruth. He had read extracts from the article to an appreciative colleague. A great sympathy for Anne welled up in him. No wonder she hated the memory of Jimmy Crocker. It is probable that Remorse would have torched him even further had he not chanced to turn absently to page 46 and read a poem entitled Love's Funeral. It was not a long poem and he had finished it inside of two minutes. But by that time a change had come upon his mood of self-loathing. He no longer felt like a particularly mean murderer. Love's Funeral was like a tonic. It braced and invigorated him. It was so unspeakably absurd, so poor in every respect. All things he now perceived had worked together for good, and had admitted on the boat that it was his satire that had crushed out of her the fondness for this sort of thing. If that was so, then the part he had played in her life had been that of a rescuer. He thought of her as she was now and as she must have been then to have written stuff like this, and he rejoiced at what he had done. In a manner of speaking, the Anne of today, the glorious creature who went about the place kidnapping Ogden's, was his handiwork. It was he who had destroyed the minor poetry virus in her. The refrain of an old song came to him. You made me what I am today, I hope you're satisfied. He was more than satisfied, he was proud of himself. He rejoiced, however, after the first flush of enthusiasm, somewhat moderately. There was no disguising the penalty of his deed of kindness. To Anne, Jimmy Crocker was no rescuer, but a sort of blend of ogre and vampire. She must never learn his real identity, or not until he had succeeded by assiduous toil, as he hoped he would, in neutralizing that prejudice of the distant past. A footstep outside broke in on his thoughts. He thrust the book quickly back into its place.  Well, she said eagerly. Jimmy did not reply for a moment. He was looking at her and thinking how perfect in every way she was now, as she stood there purged of sentimentality, all aglow with curiosity to know how her nefarious plans had succeeded. It was his Anne who stood there, not the author of The Lonely Heart. Did you ask her? Yes, but... Anne's face fell. Oh, she won't let him come back. She absolutely refused. I did my best. I know you did. There was silence. Well, this settles it, said Jimmy. Now you will have to let me help you. Anne looked troubled. But it's such a risk. Something terrible might happen to you. Isn't impersonation a criminal offence? What does it matter? They tell me prisons are excellent places nowadays. Concerts, picnics, all that sort of thing. I shan't mind going there. I have a nice singing voice. I think I will try to make the Glee Club. I suppose we are breaking the law, said Anne seriously. I told Jerry that nothing could happen to us except the loss of his place to him and being sent to my grandmother to me. But I'm bound to say I said that just to encourage him. Don't you think we ought to know what the penalty is in case we are caught? It would enable us to make our plans. If it's a life sentence, I shouldn't worry about selecting my future career. You see, explained Anne, I suppose they would hardly send me to prison as I'm a relation, though I would far rather go there than to grandmothers. She lives all alone miles away in the country and is strong on discipline. But they might do all sorts of things to you, in spite of my pleadings. I really think you had better give up the idea. I'm afraid my enthusiasm carried me away. I didn't think of all this before. Never. This thing goes through or fails over my dead body. What are you looking for? Anne was deep in a bulky volume which stood on a lectern by the window. Catalog, she said briefly, turning the pages. Uncle Peter has heaps of law books. I'll look up kidnapping. Here we are. Law Encyclopedia. Shelf Ten. Oh, that's upstairs. I shan't be a minute. She ran to the little staircase and disappeared. Her voice came from the gallery. Here we are. I've got it. Shoot! said Jimmy. There's such a lot of it! called the voice from above. Pages and pages. I'm just skimming. Wait a moment. A rustling followed from the gallery, then a sneeze. This is the dustiest place I was ever in, said the voice. It's inches deep everywhere. It's full of cigarette ends, too. I must tell Uncle. Oh, here it is. Kidnapping. Penalties. Hush, called Jimmy. There's someone coming. The door opened. Hello, said Ogden, strolling in. I was looking for you. Didn't think you would be here. Come right in, my little man, and make yourself at home, said Jimmy. Ogden eyed him with disfavor. You're pretty fresh, aren't you? This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley. Eh, who's he? Oh, a gentleman who knew what was what? Ogden closed the door. Well, I know what's what, too. I know what you are for one thing. He chuckled, I've got your number all right. In what respect? Another chuckle proceeded from the bulbous boy. You think you're smooth, don't you? But I'm on to you, Jimmy Crocker. A lot of Jimmy Crocker you are.  Get me. And I know what you're after at that. You're going to try to kidnap me. From the corner of his eye Jimmy was aware of Ann's startled face, looking over the gallery rail and withdrawn hastily. No sound came from the heights, but he knew that she was listening intently. What makes you think that? Ogden lowered himself into the depths of his favorite easy chair, and putting his feet restfully on the writing desk met Jimmy's gaze with a glassy but knowing eye. Got a cigarette? He said. I have not, said Jimmy. I'm sorry. So am I. Returning, with your permission, to our original subject, said Jimmy, what makes you think that I have come here to kidnap you? Ogden yawned. I was in the drawing room after lunch and that good guy Lord Whizbeach came in and said he wanted to talk to Mother privately. Mother sent me out of the room, so of course I listened at the door.  To the witness stand generally, I guess. Well, I listened, and I heard this Lord Whizbeach tell Mother that he had only pretended to recognize you as Jimmy Crocker and that really he had never seen you before in his life. He said you were a crook and they had got to watch you. Well, I knew then why you had come here. It was pretty smooth getting in the way you did. I've got to hand it to you. Jimmy did not reply. His mind was occupied with the contemplation of this dashing counter-stroke on the part of Gentleman Jack. He could hardly refrain from admiring the simple strategy with which the latter had circumvented him. There was an artistry about the move which compelled respect. Well now, see here, said Ogden. You and I have got to get together on this proposition. I'd been kidnapped twice before, and the only guys that made anything out of it were the kidnappers. It's pretty soft for them. They couldn't have got a set without me, and they never dreamed of giving me a rake off. I'm getting good and tired of being kidnapped for other people's benefit, and I made up my mind that the next guy that wants me has got to come across. See? My proposition is fifty-fifty. If you like it, I'm game to let you go ahead. If you don't like it, then the deal's off, and you'll find that you've a darn poor chance of getting me. When I was kidnapped before I was just a kid, but I can look after myself now. Well, what do you say? Jimmy found it hard at first to say anything. He had never properly understood the possibilities of Ogden's character before. The longer he contemplated him, the more admirable and scheme appeared. It seemed to him that only a resolute keeper of a home for dogs would be adequately equipped for dealing with this remarkable youth. This is a commercial age, he said. You bet it is, said Ogden. My middle name is business. Say, are you working this on your own, or are you in with Buck McGinnis and his crowd? I don't think I know Mr. McGinnis. He's the guy who kidnapped me the first time. He's a rough-necked. Smooth Sam Fisher got away with me the second time. Maybe you're in with Sam. No. No, I guess not. I heard that he had married and retired from business. I rather wish you were one of Buck's lot. I like Buck. When he kidnapped me, I lived with him and he gave me a swell time. When I left him, a woman came and interviewed me about it for one of the Sunday papers. Sob's stuff. Called the piece, Even Kidnappers Have Tender Hearts Beneath a Rough Exterior. I've got it upstairs in my press-clipping album. It was pretty bad slush. Buck McGinnis hasn't got any tender heart beneath his rough exterior, but he's a good sort and I liked him. We used to shoot craps, and he taught me to chew. I'd be tickled to death to have Buck at me again. But if you're working on your own, all right, it's all the same to me, provided you meet me on the terms.  Less of it, less of it. I've troubles enough to bear without having you getting fresh. Well, what about it? Talk figures. If I let you take me away, do we divvy up or don't we? That's all you've got to say. That's easily settled. I'll certainly give you half of whatever I get. Ogden looked wistfully at the writing desk. I wish I could have that in writing. But I guess it wouldn't stand in law. I suppose I shall have to trust you. Honor Among Thieves Less of the thieves. This is just a straight business proposition. I've got something valuable to sell, and I'm darned if I'm going to keep giving it away. I've been too easy. I ought to have thought of this before. All right, then. That's settled. Now it's up to you. You can think out the rest of it yourself. He heaved himself out of the chair and left the room, and, coming down from the gallery, found Jimmy meditating. He looked up at the sound of her step. Well, that seems to make it pretty easy for us, doesn't it? He said. It solves the problem of ways and means. But this is awful. This alters everything. It isn't safe for you to stay here. You must go away at once. They found you out. You may be arrested at any moment. That's a side issue. The main point is to put this thing through. Then we can think about what is going to happen to me. But can't you see the risk you're running? I don't mind. I want to help you. I won't let you. You must. But do be sensible. What would you think of me if I allowed you to face this danger? I wouldn't think any differently of you. My opinion of you is a fixed thing. Nothing can alter it. I tried to tell you on the boat, but you wouldn't let me. I think you're the most perfect, wonderful girl in all the world. I've loved you since the first moment I saw you. I knew who you were when we met for half a minute that day in London. We were utter strangers, but I knew you. You were the girl I had been looking for all my life. Good heavens, you talk of risks. Can't you understand that just being with you and speaking to you and knowing that we share this thing together is enough to wipe out any thought of risk? I do anything for you, and you expect me to back out of this thing because there is a certain amount of danger. Anne had retreated to the door and was looking at him with wide eyes. With other young men and there had been many, who had said much the same sort of thing to her since her debutant days she had been cool and composed, a little sorry perhaps, but in no doubt as to her own feelings and her ability to resist their pleadings. But now her heart was racing, and the conviction had begun to steal over her that the cool and composed Anchester was an imminent danger of making a fool of herself. Right suddenly, without any sort of warning, she realized that there was some quality in Jimmy which called aloud to some corresponding quality in herself, a nebulous something that made her know that he and she were mates. She knew herself hard to please where men were concerned. She could not have described what it was in her that all the men she had met, the men with whom she had golfed and ridden and yotted, had failed to satisfy. But ever since she had acquired the power of self-analysis she had known that it was something which was a solid and indestructible part of her composition. She could not have put into words what quality she demanded in man, but she had always known that she would recognize it when she found it, and she recognized it now in Jimmy.  Anne, said Jimmy. It's too late. She had not meant to say that. She had meant to say that it was impossible, out of the question. But her heart was running away with her, goaded on by the irony of it all. A veil seemed to have fallen from before her eyes, and she knew now why she had been drawn to Jimmy from the very first. They were mates, and she had thrown away her happiness. I've promised to marry Lord Whizbeach. Jimmy stopped dead, as if the blow had been a physical one. You've promised to marry Lord Whizbeach. Yes. But, but when? Just now, only a few minutes ago, when I was driving him to his hotel. He had asked me to marry him before I left for England, and I had promised to give him his answer when I got back. But when I got back, somehow, I couldn't make up my mind. The days slipped by. Something seemed to be holding me back. He pressed me to say that I would marry him, and it seemed absurd to go on refusing to be definite. So I said I would. You can't love him. Surely you don't. I met his gaze, frankly. Something seems to have happened to me in the last few minutes, she said, and I can't think clearly. A little while ago it didn't seem to matter much. I liked him. He was good-looking and good-tempered. I felt that we should get along quite well and be as happy as most people are. That seemed as near-perfection as one could expect to get nowadays, so, well, that's how it was. But you can't marry him. It's out of the question. I've promised. You must break your promise. I can't do that. You must. I can't. One must play the game. Jimmy groped for words. But in this case you mustn't. It's awful. In this special case... He broke off. He saw the trap he was in. He could not denounce that crook without exposing himself. And from that he still shrank. And's prejudice against Jimmy Crocker might have its root in a trivial and absurd grievance, but it had been growing through the years, and who could say how strong it was now? N came a step towards him, then paused doubtfully. Then, as if making up her mind, she drew near and touched his sleeve. I'm sorry, she said. There was a silence. I'm sorry. She moved away. The door closed softly behind her. Jimmy scarcely knew that she had gone. He sat down in that deep chair which was Mr. Pett's favourite, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. And then, how many minutes or hours later he did not know, the sharp click of the door handle roused him. He sprang from the chair. Was it Anne come back? It was not Anne. Around the edge of the door came inquiringly the fair head of Lord Whizbeach. Oh! said his lordship, citing Jimmy. The head withdrew itself. Come here, shouted Jimmy. The head appeared again. Talking to me? Yes, I was talking to you. Lord Whizbeach followed his superstructure into the room. He was outwardly all that was bland and unperturbed, but there was a wary look in the eye that cocked itself at Jimmy, and he did not move far from the door. His fingers rested easily on the handle behind him. He did not think it probable that Jimmy could have heard of his visit to Mrs. Pett, but there had been something menacing in the latter's voice, and he believed in safety first. They told me Mrs. Chester was here. He said by way of relaxing any possible strain there might be in the situation. And what the devil do you want with Mrs. Chester? You slimy, crawling second-story worker? You damned oily yeg? inquired Jimmy. The sunniest optimist could not have diluted himself into the belief that the words were spoken in a friendly and genial spirit. Lord Whizbeach's fingers tightened on the door handle, and he grew a little flushed about the cheekbones. What's all this about? he said. You infernal crook! Lord Whizbeach looked anxious. Don't shout like that.  Do you want people to hear? Jimmy drew a deep breath. I shall have to get further away from you, he said quietly. There's no knowing what may happen if I don't.  At least I do, but I had better not. He retired slowly until brought to a halt by the writing desk. To this he anchored himself with a firm grip. He was extremely anxious to do nothing rash, and the spectacle of Gentleman Jack invited rashness. He leaned against the desk, clutching its solidity with both hands. Lord Whizbeach held steadfastly to the door handle, and in this tense fashion the interview proceeded. Miss Chester, said Jimmy, forcing himself to speak calmly, has just been telling me that she has promised to marry you. Quite true, said Lord Whizbeach. It will be announced to-morrow. A remark trembled on his lips to the effect that he relied on Jimmy for a fish-slice, but Prudence kept it unspoken. He was unable at present to understand Jimmy's emotion. Why Jimmy should object to his being engaged to Anne, he could not imagine. But it was plain that for some reason he had taken the thing to heart, and dearly as he loved a bit of quiet fun, Lord Whizbeach decided that the other was at least six inches too tall and fifty pounds too heavy to be bantered in his present mood by one of his own physique. Why not? It won't be announced to-morrow, said Jimmy, because by to-morrow you will be as far away from here as you can get, if you have any sense. What do you mean? Just this. If you haven't left this house by breakfast time to-morrow, I shall expose you. Lord Whizbeach was not feeling particularly happy, but he laughed at this. Hew! That's what I said. Who do you think you are to go about exposing people? I happen to be Mrs. Pet's nephew, Jimmy Crocker. Lord Whizbeach laughed again. Is that the line you're going to take? It is.  Just that. Forget it! Lord Whizbeach had forgotten to be alarmed in his amusement. He smiled broadly. I'm not saying it's not good stuff to pull, but it's old stuff now. I'm sorry for you, but I thought of it before you did. I went to Mrs. Pet directly after lunch and sprang that line of talk myself. Do you think she'll believe you after that? I tell you, I'm ace high with that dame.  I think I can, for the simple reason that I really am Jimmy Crocker. Yes, you are. Exactly. Yes, I am. Lord Whizbeach smiled tolerantly. It was worth trying the bluff, I guess, but it won't work. I know you'll be glad to get me out of this house, but you've got to make a better play than that to do it. Don't deceive yourself with the idea that I'm bluffing. Look here. He suddenly removed his coat and threw it to Lord Whizbeach. Read the tailor's label inside the pocket. See the name. Also the address. J. Crocker, Drexdale House, Grovner Square, London. Lord Whizbeach picked up the garment and looked as directed.  That's no proof. Perhaps not, but when you consider the reputation of a tailor whose name is on the label, it's hardly likely that he would be standing in with an imposter, is it? If you want real proof, I have no doubt that there are half a dozen men working on the Chronicle who can identify me. Or are you convinced already? Lord Whizbeach capitulated. I don't know what fool game you think you're playing, but I can't see why you couldn't have told me this when we were talking after lunch. Never mind. I had my reasons. They don't matter. What matters is that you are going to get out of here to-morrow. Do you understand that? I get you. Then that's about all, I think. Don't let me keep you. Say listen. Gentleman Jack's voice was plaintive.  Give me time to have a guy in Montreal send me a telegram telling me to go up there right away. Otherwise you might just as well put the cops on me at once. The old lady knows I've got business in Canada. You don't need to be rough on a fellow. Jimmy pondered this point. All right, I don't object to that. Thanks. Don't start anything, though. I don't know what you mean. Jimmy pointed to the safe. Come, come, friend of my youth. We have no secrets from each other. I know you're after what's in there, and you know that I know. I don't want to harp on it, but you'll be spending tonight in the house, and I think you had better make up your mind to spend it in your room, getting a nice sleep to prepare you for your journey. Do you follow me, old friend? I get you. That will be all then, I think. Why does smile around your neck and recede?" The door slammed. Lord Whizbeach had restrained his feeling successfully during the interview, but he could not deny himself that slight expression of them. Jimmy crossed the room and took his coat from the chair where the other had dropped it. As he did so, a voice spoke. Say! Jimmy spun round. The room was apparently empty. The thing was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect when the voice spoke again. You think you're darned funny, don't you? It came from above. Jimmy had forgotten the gallery. He directed his gaze thither and perceived the heavy face of Ogden hanging over the rail like a gargoyle. What are you doing there? He demanded. Listening. How did you get there? There's a door back here that you can get to from the stairs. I often come here for a quiet cigarette. Say, you think yourself some Josh or don't you?  You strung me like an onion. So you really, Jimmy Crocker, after all. Where was the sense in pulling all that stuff about taking me away and divvying up the ransom? Ah, you make me tired. The head was withdrawn and Jimmy heard heavy steps followed by the banging of a door. Peace reigned in the library. Jimmy sat down in the chair which was Mr. Pett's favorite and which Ogden was accustomed to occupy to that gentleman's displeasure. The swiftness of recent events had left him a little dizzy, and he desired to think matters over and find out exactly what had happened. The only point which appeared absolutely clear to him in a welter of confusing occurrences was the fact that he had lost the chance of kidnapping Ogden. Everything had arranged itself so beautifully, simply, and conveniently as regarded that venture until a moment ago, but now that the boy had discovered his identity it was impossible for him to attempt it. He was loath to accept this fact. Surely even now there was a way. Quite suddenly an admirable plan occurred to him. It involved the cooperation of his father. And at that thought he realized with a start that life had been moving so rapidly for him since his return to the house that he had not paid any attention at all to what was really as amazing a mystery as any. He had been too busy to wonder why his father was there. He debated the best method of getting in touch with him. It was out of the question to descend to the pantry, or wherever it was that his father lived in this new incarnation of his. Then the happy thought struck him that results might be obtained by the simple process of ringing the bell. It might produce some other unit of the domestic staff, however it was worth trying. He rang the bell. A few moments later the door opened. Jimmy looked up. It was not his father. It was a dangerous-looking female of uncertain age, dressed as a parlor maid, who eyed him with what seemed to his conscious stricken soul dislike and suspicion.  Jimmy had seldom seen a woman who attracted him less at first sight. Drank, sir? Jimmy blinked and almost ducked. The words had come at him like a projectile. Oh, ah, yes. Join me, sir? With an effort Jimmy induced his mind to resume its interrupted equilibrium. Oh, ah, yes. Would you mind sending Skinner the butler to me? Yes, sir. The apparition vanished. Jimmy drew out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. He felt weak and guilty. He felt as if he had just been accused of nameless crimes and had been unable to deny the charge. Such was the magic of Miss Trimble's eye, the left one which looked directly at its object. Conjecture pauses baffled at the thought of the effect which her gaze might have created in the breaths of the sex she despised had it been double instead of single-barreled. But half of it had wasted itself on a spot some few feet to his right. Presently the door opened again and Mr. Crocker appeared, looking like a benevolent priest. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Of Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Whithouse This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Piccadilly Gym Chapter 19 Between Father and Son Well, Skinner my man, said Jimmy, how goes it? Mr. Crocker looked about him cautiously. Then his priestly manner fell from him like a robe and he bounded forward. Jimmy, he exclaimed, seizing his son's hand and shaking it violently. Say, it's great seeing you again, Jim. Jimmy drew himself up haughtily. Skinner, my good menial, you forget yourself strangely. You will be getting fired if you mit the handsome guest in this chummy fashion. He slapped his father on the back. Dad, this is great. How on earth did you come to be here? What's the idea? Why the butling? When did you come over? Tell me all. Mr. Crocker hoisted himself nimbly onto the writing desk and sat there, beaming with dangling legs. It was your letter that did it, Jimmy. Say, Jim, there wasn't any need for you to do a thing like that just for me. Well, I thought you would have a better chance of being a peer without me around. By the way, Dad, how did my stepmother take the Lord Percy episode? A shadow fell upon Mr. Crocker's happy face. I don't like to do much thinking about your stepmother, he said. She was pretty sore about Percy. And she was pretty sore about your lighting out for America. But gee, what she must be feeling like now that I have come over, I dare not let myself think. You haven't explained that yet. Why did you come over? Well, I've been feeling homesick. I always do over there in the baseball season, and then talking with Pet made it worse. Talking with Pet? Did you see him then when he was in London? See him? I let him in. How? Into the house, I mean. I had just gone to the front door to see what sort of a day it was. I wanted to know if there had been enough rain in the night to stop my having to watch that cricket game. And just as I got there, the bell rang. I opened the door. A revoltingly plebeian thing to do. I'm ashamed of you, Dad. They won't stand for that sort of thing in the House of Lords. Well, before I knew what was happening, they had taken me for the butler. I didn't want your stepmother to know I've been opening doors. You remember how touchy she always was about it, so I just let it go at that and jollied them along. But I just couldn't help asking the old man how the pennant race was making out, and that tickled him so much that he offered me a job here as butler if I ever wanted to make a change. And then your note came saying that you were going to New York, and, well, I couldn't help myself. You couldn't have kept me in London with ropes. I sneaked out next day and bought a passage on the Carmantic. She sailed the Wednesday after you left, and came straight here. They gave me this job right away. Mr. Crocker paused, and a holy light of enthusiasm made his homely features almost beautiful. Say, Jim, I've seen a ballgame every darn day since I landed. Say, two days running, Larry Doyle made home runs. But gosh, that guy claim as one swell robber. See here, Mr. Crocker sprang down from the desk and snatched up a handful of books which he proceeded to distribute about the floor. There were two men on bases in the sixth, and what's his name came to bat. He lined one out to center field, where this book is, and... Pull yourself together, Skinner. You can't monkey about with the employer's library like that. Jimmy restored the books to their places. Simmer down and tell me more. Postpone the gossip from the diamond. What plans have you made? Have you considered the future at all? You aren't going to hold down this butling job forever, are you? When do you go back to London? The light died out of Mr. Crocker's face. I guess I shall have to go back sometime. But how can I yet with the giants leading the league like this? But did you just light out without saying anything? I left a note for your stepmother telling her I had gone to America for a vacation.  Assert yourself, dad. Tell her that woman's place is the home and man's the ballpark. Be firm. Mr. Crocker shook his head dubiously. It's all very well to talk that way when you're 3,000 miles from home, but you know as well as I do, Jim, that your stepmother, though she's a delightful woman, isn't the sort you can assert yourself with. Look at this sister of hers here. I guess you haven't been in the house long enough to have noticed, but she's very like Eugenia in some ways. She's the boss, all right, an old pet does just what he's told to. I guess it's the same with me, Jim. There's a certain type of man that's just born to have it put over on him by a certain type of woman. I'm that sort of man, and your stepmother's that sort of woman. No, I guess I'm going to get mine, all right, and the only thing to do is to keep it from stopping me having a good time now. There was truth in what he said, and Jimmy recognized it. He changed the subject. Well, never mind that. There's no sense in worrying oneself about the future. Tell me, Dad, where did you get all the dinnery-served madam stuff? How did you ever learn to be a butler? Bailess taught me back in London, and, of course, I've played butlers when I was on the stage. Jimmy did not speak for a moment. Did you ever play a kidnapper, Dad? He asked at length. Sure. I was Chicago Ed in a crook play called This Way Out. Why, surely you saw me in that. I got some good notices. Jimmy nodded. Of course. I knew I'd seen you play that sort of part some time. You came on during the dark scene, and switched on the lights and covered the bunch with your gun while they were still blinking. You were great in that part, Dad. It was a good part, said Mr. Crocker modestly. It had fat. I'd like to have a chance to play a kidnapper again. There's a lot of pep to kidnappers. You shall play one again, said Jimmy. I'm putting on a little sketch with a kidnapper as the star part. Eh? A sketch? You, Jim? Where? Here, in this house. It's entitled Kidnapping Ogden, and opens to-night. Mr. Crocker looked at his only son in concern. Jimmy appeared to him to be rambling. Amateur theatricals, he hazarded. In the sense that there is no pay for performing, yes. Dad, you know that kid Ogden upstairs? Well, it's quite simple.  He shook his head. I don't follow all this. Of course not. I haven't begun to explain. Dad, in your rambles through this joint, you've noticed a girl with glorious red-gold hair, I imagine? Anchester? Anchester. I'm going to marry her. Jimmy! But she doesn't know it yet. Now, follow me carefully, Dad. Five years ago, Anchester wrote a book of poems. It's on that desk there. You were using it a moment back as second base or something. Now, I was working at that time on the Chronicle. I wrote a skid on those poems for the Sunday paper. Do you begin to follow the plot? She's got it in for you? She soar? Exactly. Get that firmly fixed in your mind, because it's the source from which all the rest of the story springs. Mr. Crocker interrupted. But I don't understand. You say she soared you. Well, how is it that you came in together, looking as if you were good friends when I let you in this morning? I was waiting for you to ask that. The explanation is that she doesn't know that I am Jimmy Crocker. But you came here saying that you were Jimmy Crocker. Quite right, and that is where the plot thickens. I made Anne's acquaintance first in London and then on the boat. I had found out that Jimmy Crocker was the man she hated most in the world, so I took another name. I called myself Bayless. Bayless? I had to think of something quick, because the clerk at the shipping office was waiting to fill in my ticket. I had just been talking to Bayless on the phone, and his was the only name that came into my mind. You know how it is when you try to think of a name suddenly? Now, mark the sequel. Old Bayless came to see me off at Paddington. Anne was there and saw me. She said, Good morning, Mr. Bayless, or something, and naturally, Old Bayless replied, What ho? are words to that effect. The only way to handle the situation was to introduce him as my father. I did so. Anne, therefore, thinks that I am a young man named Bayless who has come over to America to make his fortune. We now come to the third reel. I met Anne by chance at the knickerbocker and took her to lunch.  I knew that, if Anne discovered who I really was, she would have nothing more to do with me, so I gave Reggie the haughty stare and told him that he had made a mistake. He ambled away, and possibly committed suicide in his anguish at having made such a bloomer, leaving Anne discussing with me the extraordinary coincidence of my being Jimmy Crocker's double. Do you follow the story of my life so far? Mr. Crocker, who had been listening with wrinkled brow and other signs of rapt attention, nodded. I understand all that, but how do you come to get into this house? That is reel for. I am getting to that. It seems that Anne, who is the sweetest girl on earth and always on the lookout to do someone a kindness, has decided, in the interests of the boy's future, to remove young Ogden Fort from his present sphere, where he is being spoiled and ruined, and send him down to a man on Long Island who would keep him for a while and instill the first principles of decency into him. Her accomplice in this admirable scheme was Jerry Mitchell. Jerry Mitchell. Who, as you know, got fired yesterday. Jerry was to have done the rough work of the job, but being fired, he was no longer available. I, therefore, offered to take his place. So here I am. You're going to kidnap that boy? No, you are. Me? Precisely.  Let me explain further. Owing to circumstances which I need not go into, Ogden has found out that I am really Jimmy Crocker, so he refuses to have anything more to do with me. I had deceived him into believing that I was a professional kidnapper, and he came to me and offered to let me kidnap him if I would go fifty-fifty with him in the ransom. Gosh!  Well, now he has found that I am not all his fancy-painted me, he wouldn't come away with me, and I want you to under-study me while the going is good. In the fifth reel, which will be released to-night after the household has retired to rest, you will be featured. It's got to be to-night, because it has just occurred to me that Ogden, knowing that Lord Whizbeach is a crook, may go to him with the same proposal that he made to me. Lord Whizbeach a crook! Of the worst description. He is here to steal that explosive stuff of willy-partridges. But as I have blocked that play, he may turn his attention to Ogden. But Jimmy, if that fellow is a crook, how do you know he is? He told me so himself. Well, then, why don't you expose him? Because, in order to do so, Skinner, my man, I should have to explain that I was really Jimmy Crocker, and the time is not yet ripe for that. To my thinking, the time will not be ripe till you have got safely away with Ogden Ford. I can then go to Anne and say, I may have played you a rotten trick in the past, but I have done you a good turn now, so let's forget the past. So you see that everything now depends on you, Dad. I'm not asking you to do anything difficult. I'll go round to the boarding-house now and tell Jerry Mitchell about what we have arranged, and have him waiting outside here in a car. Then, all you will have to do is to go to Ogden, play a short scene in Chicago Ed, escort him to the car, and then go back to bed and have a good sleep. Once Ogden thinks you are a professional kidnapper, you won't have any difficulty at all.  Surely you can tackle this light and attractive job. Why, it will be a treat for you to do a bit of character acting once more. Jimmy had struck the right note. His father's eyes began to gleam with excitement. The scent of the footlight seemed to dilate his nostrils. I was always good at that rough-necked stuff, he murmured meditatively. I used to eat it. Exactly, said Jimmy. Look at it in the right way, and I am doing you a kindness in giving you this chance. Mr. Crocker rubbed his cheek with his forefinger. You'd want me to make up for the part? He asked wistfully. Of course. You want me to do it tonight? At about two in the morning, I thought. I'll do it, Jim. Jimmy grasped his hand. I knew I could rely on you, Dad. Mr. Crocker was following a train of thought. Dark wig, blue chin, heavy eyebrows. I guess I can't do better than my old Chicago Ed makeup. Say, Jimmy, how am I to get to the kid? That'll be all right. You can stay in my room till the time comes to go to him. Use it as a dressing-room. How am I to get him out of the house? Through this room I'll tell Jerry to wade out on the side street with the car from two o'clock on. Mr. Crocker considered these arrangements. That seems to be about all, he said. I don't think there's anything else. I'll slip downtown and buy the props. I'll go and tell Jerry. A thought struck Mr. Crocker. You'd better tell Jerry to make up too. He doesn't want the kid recognizing him and squealing on him later. Jimmy was lost in admiration of his father's resource. You think of everything, Dad. That wouldn't have occurred to me. You certainly do take to crime in the most wonderful way. It seems to come naturally to you. Mr. Crocker smirked modestly. is only as strong as its weakest link. The best-laid schemes of mice and men getting a glee if one of the mice is a mental defective or if one of the men is a Jerry Mitchell. Celestine, Mrs. Petz made, she who was really Maggie O'Toole and whom Jerry loved with a strength, which deprived him of even that small amount of intelligence which had been bestowed upon him by nature, came into the housekeeper's room at about ten o'clock that night. The domestic staff had gone in a body to the moving pictures, and the only occupant of the room was the new parlor maid, who was sitting in a hard chair reading Schopenhauer. Celestine's face was flushed, her dark hair was ruffled, and her eyes were shining. She breathed a little quickly, and her left hand was out of sight behind her back. She eyed the new parlor maid doubtfully for a moment. The latter was a woman of somewhat unencouraging exterior, not the kind that invites confidences. But Celestine had confidences to bestow, and the exodus to the movies had left her in a position where she could not pick and choose. She was faced with the alternative of locking her secret in her palpitating bosom or of revealing it to this one auditor. The choice was one which no impulsive damsel in like circumstances would have hesitated to make. Say, said Celestine. A face rose reluctantly from behind Schopenhauer. A gleaming eye met Celestine's. A second eye, no less gleaming, glared at the ceiling. Say, I've just been talking to my feather outside! said Celestine with a coy simper. Say, he's a grand man! A snort of uncompromising disapproval proceeded from the thin-lipped mouth beneath the eyes. But Celestine was too full of her news to be discouraged. I'm strong for Jair, she said. Ah, said the student of Schopenhauer.  Say, he's a grand man! For the first time she had the other's undivided attention. The new parlor maid placed her book upon the table. Ah, she said. Celestine could hold back her dramatic surprise no longer. Her concealed left hand flashed into view. On the third finger glittered a ring. She gazed at it with awed affection. Aided a beaut! She contemplated its sparkling perfection for a moment in rapturous silence. Say, you could have knocked me down with the feather! she resumed. He telephones me a while ago and says to be outside the back door at ten to-night, because he's something he wanted to tell me. Of course, he couldn't come in and tell it me here, because he been fired and everything. So I goes out, and there he is. Hello, kid, he says to me. Fresh, I says to him. Say, I got something to be fresh about, he says to me, and then he reaches into his jeans and hauls out the sparkler. What's that, I says to him? It's an engagement ring, he says to me. For you, if you'll wear it. I came over so weak, I could have fell. And the next thing I know, he's got it on my finger and... Celestine broke off, modestly. Say, aided a beaut, honest. She gave herself over to contemplation once more. He says to me how he's on Easy Street now, or will be pretty soon. I says to him, have you got a job then? And he says to me, now I ain't got a job, but I'm going to pull off a stunt tonight that's going to mean enough to me to start that health farm I've told you about. Say, he's always had a line of talk about starting a health farm down on Long Island. He, knowing all about training and health and everything through having been one of them fighters. I ask him what the stunt is, but he won't tell me yet. He says he'll tell me after we're married. But he says it's sure fire, and he's going to buy the license tomorrow. She paused for comment and congratulations, eyeing her companion expectantly. Ha! said the new partermaid briefly and resumed her Schopenhauer. Decidedly, hers was not a winning personality. Aided a beaut? demanded Celestine, damped. The new partermaid uttered a curious sound at the back of her throat. He's a beaut, she said cryptically. She added another remark in a lower tone, too low for Celestine's ears. It could hardly have been that, but it sounded to Celestine like... I'll fix him. End of Chapter 20


No Higher than a high school Higher than a high school higher than a high school Yeah, get in high rolling up. Mmm. Say what sipping whoo slowing up Dang Chotted brad she pulling up Look, so I skate to her rolling up. Come on.  I'm the one that's rolling the plane I'm the one that got the kush and it got my own name. I'm the one to put on the straights I'm the one that's riding a old school, you know me. Yeah, you know I'm doing my thing down here in the ATL orders. No, they know the smell and I got some older bill Yeah, I don't Might just make a turkey sandwich. They'll be just being like me last year next year.   I hear this blood that I can feel my nails growing Come on. She is crazy.   There ain't no turkey in it.  We got the J-O-Wee. We playing pimpin, right?