XI. Jimmy decides to be himself. It was less than a quarter of an hour later such was the speed with which Nemesis, usually slow had overtaken him, that Jerry Mitchell carrying a grip and walking dejectedly emerged from the back premises of the pet home and started down Riverside Drive in the direction of his boarding house, a cheap, clean, and respectable establishment situated on 97th Street between the Drive and Broadway. His usually placid nervous system was ruffled into quiver from the events of the afternoon and his cauliflower ears still burned reminiscently at the recollection of the uncomplimentary words shot at them by Mrs. Pet before she expelled him from the house. Moreover, he was in a mild panic at the thought of having to see Anne later on and try to explain the disaster to her. He knew how the news would affect her. She had set her heart on removing Ogden to more disciplinary surroundings and she could not possibly do it now that her ally was no longer an inmate of the house. He was an essential factor in the scheme, and now, to gratify the desire of the moment, he had eliminated himself. Long before he reached the brownstone house, which looked exactly like all the other brownstone houses in all the other side streets of Uptown, New York, the first fine careless rapture of his mad outbreak had passed from Jerry Mitchell, leaving nervous apprehension in its place. Anne was a girl whom he worshipped respectfully, but he feared her in her wrath. When he entered the boarding-house, Jerry, seeking company in his hour of sorrow, climbed the stairs till he reached the door on the second floor. Sniffing and detecting the odor of tobacco, he knocked and was bidden to enter. �Hello, Bayless!� he said sadly, having obeyed the call. He sat down on the end of the bed and heaved a deep sigh. The room which he had entered was airy, but small, so small indeed that the presence of any furniture in it at all was almost miraculous, for at first sight it seemed incredible that the bed did not fill it from side to side. There were, however, a few vacant spots, and in these had been placed a wash stand, a chest of drawers, and a midget rocking chair. The window, which the thoughtful architect had designed at least three sizes too large for the room, and which admitted the evening air in pleasing profusion, looked out onto a series of forlorn backyards. In boarding houses it is only the windows of the rich and haughty that faced the street. On the bed, a corn cob pipe between his teeth, lay Jimmy Crocker. He was shoeless and in his shirt sleeves. There was a crumpled evening paper on the floor beside the bed. He seemed to be taking his rest after the labors of a trying day. At the sound of Jerry's sigh he raised his head, but, finding the attitude too severe a strain on the muscles of the neck, restored it to the pillow. �What�s the matter, Jerry? You seem perturbed. You have the aspect of one whom fate is smitten in the spiritual solar plexus, or of one who has been searching for the leak and life�s gas pipe with a lighted candle. What�s wrong? Curtains. Jimmy, through long absence from his native land, was not always able to follow Jerry's thoughts when concealed in the wrappings of the peculiar dialect which he affected. I get you not, friend. Supply a few foot-notes. �I�ve been fired!� Jimmy set up. This was no imaginary trouble, no mere malaise of the temperament. It was concrete and called for sympathy. �I�m awfully sorry,� he said. �No wonder you aren�t rollicking. How did it happen? That half-portioned Bill Taft came joshing me about my beezer till it got something fierce,� explained Jerry. �William J. Bryan couldn�t have stood for it.� Once again Jimmy lost the thread. The wealth of political illusion baffled him. �What�s Taft been doing to you?� It wasn�t Taft. He only looks like him. It was that kid Ogden up where I worked. He came budding into the gym, joshing me about, making personal remarks, till I kind of lost my goat, and the next thing I knew I was giving him his� a faint gleam of pleasure lightened the gloom of his face. �I certainly give him his� the gleam faded. �And after that, well, here I am.� He understood now. He had come to the boarding-house the night of his meeting with Jerry Mitchell on Broadway, and had been there ever since, and frequent conversations with the pugilist had put him abreast of affairs at the pet-home. He was familiar with the personnel of the establishment on Riverside Drive, and knew precisely how great was the crime of administering correction to Ogden Ford, no matter what the cause. Nordidy required explanation of the phenomenon of Mrs. Pet dismissing one who was in her husband�s private employment. Jerry had his sympathy freely. �You appear,� he said, �to have acted in a thoroughly capable and praiseworthy manner. The only point in your conduct which I would permit myself to criticize is your omission to slay the kid. That, however, was due, I take it, to the fact that you were interrupted. We will now proceed to examine the future. I cannot see that it is altogether murky. You have lost a good job, but there are others equally good for a man of your caliber. New York is crammed with dispeptic millionaires who need an efficient physical instructor to look after them. Cheer up, Cuthbert, for the sun is still shining.� Jerry Mitchell shook his head. He refused to be comforted. �It�s my son,� he said. �What am I going to say to her?� �What has she got to do with it?� asked Jimmy, interested. For a moment Jerry hesitated, but the desire for sympathy and advice was too strong for him. And after all there was no harm in confiding in a good comrade like Jimmy. �It�s like this,� he said. �Miss Anne and I had got it all fixed up to kidnap the kid.� �What? �Say, I don�t mean ordinary kidnapping, it�s this way. Miss Anne, come to me, and we agree that the kids of Pess that it ought to have some strong arm keep them in order. So we decide to get him away to a friend of mine who keeps a dog�s hospital down on Long Island. But Smithers is the guy to handle that kid.  I thought a few weeks with Bud was what the doctor ordered for Ogden, and Miss Anne guessed I was right, so we had it all framed.  She can�t do nothing with a husky kid like that without me to help her. And how am I going to help her if I�m not allowed in the house?� Jimmy was conscious of a renewed admiration for a girl whom he had always considered a queen among women. How rarely in this world did one find a girl who combined every feminine charm of mind and body with a resolute determination to raise Cain at the slightest provocation. What an absolutely corking idea!� Jerry smirked modestly at the approbation, but returned instantly to his gloom. �You got me now? What am I to say to her? She�ll be sore.� The problem, Jimmy had begun, is one which, as you suggest, presents certain when there was a knock at the door and the head of the boarding-houses made of all work popped in. �Mr. Baylis, is Mr. Mitchell? Oh, say Mr. Mitchell, there�s a lady down below wants to see you,� says her name�s Chester.� Jerry looked at Jimmy appealingly. �What�ll I do? �Do nothing� said Jimmy, rising and reaching for his shoes. �I�ll go down and see her. I can explain for you.� �It�s mighty good of you! It will be my pleasure. Rely on me.� Ann, who had returned from her drive shortly after the Ogden disaster, and had instantly proceeded to the boarding-house, had been shown into the parlor. Jimmy found her staring in a rapt way at a statuette of the infant Samuel which stood near a bowl of waxed fruit on the mantelpiece. She was feeling aggrieved with fate and extremely angry with Jerry Mitchell, and she turned at the sound of the opening door with a militant expression in her eyes which changed to one of astonishment on perceiving who it was that had come in. �Mr. Baylis!� �Good evening, Miss Chester. We so to speak meet again. I have come as an intermediary. To be brief, Jerry Mitchell, dare not face you, so I offered to come down instead. �But how? But why are you here? �I live here,� he followed her gaze. She had rested on a picture of cows in a field. �Late American school,� he said, attributed to the landlady's niece, a graduate of the Wissahikon Pennsylvania Correspondent School of Pictorial Art, said to Beginewan, �You live here?� repeated Ann. She had been brought up all her life among the carefully thought-out effects of imminent interior decorators, and the room seemed more dreadful to her than it actually was. What an awful room! �Awful! You must be overlooking the piano. Can't you see the handsome plush cover from where you are standing?  We get music here of an evening when we don't see it coming in sidestep. �Why, in the name of goodness, do you live here, Mr. Baylis?� �Because, Miss Chester, I am infernally hard up, because the Baylis bankroll has been stricken with a wasting sickness.� Ann was looking at him incredulously. �But, but then, did you really mean all that at lunch the other day? I thought you were joking. I took it for granted that you could get work wherever you wanted to, or you wouldn't have made fun of it like that. Can't you really find anything to do?� �Plenty to do, but I am not paid for it. I walk a great number of blocks and jump into a great number of cars and dive into elevators and dive out again, and open doors and say, �Good morning!� when people tell me they have it a job for me. My days are quite full, but my pocketbook isn't.� Ann had forgotten all about her errand in her sympathy. �I am so sorry! Why, it's terrible! I should have thought you could have found something!� I thought the same till the employers of New York in a body told me I couldn't. Men of widely differing views on religion, politics, and a hundred other points, they were unanimous on that. The nearest I came to being a financial titan was when I landed a job in a store on Broadway, demonstrating a patent collar clip at ten dollars a week. For a while all nature seemed to be shouting, �Ten per, ten per!� then which there are a few sweeter words in the language. But I was fired halfway through the second day, and nature changed to act. But why? It wasn't my fault, just fate. This contrivance was called Clipstone's Cute Collar Clip, and it was supposed to make it easy for you to fasten your tie. My job was to stand in the window in my shirt sleeves, gnashing my teeth, and registering baffled rage when I tried the old obsolete method, and beaming on the multitude when I used the clip. Unfortunately, I got the cards mixed. I beamed when I tried the old obsolete method, and nearly burst myself with baffled fury just after I had exhibited the card bearing the words, �I will now try Clipstone's Cute Clip.� I couldn't think what the vast crowd outside the window was laughing at, till the boss, who chanced to pause on the outskirts of the gathering on his way back from lunch, was good enough to tell me. Nothing that I could say would convince him that I was not being intentionally humorous. I was sorry to lose the job, though it did make me feel like a goldfish. But talking of being fired brings us back to Jerry Mitchell. �Oh, never mind, Jerry Mitchell, now!� On the contrary, let us discuss his case and the points arising from it with care and concentration, Jerry Mitchell has told me all.� Ann was startled. �What do you mean?� �The word �all�� said Jimmy, �is slang for everything. You see in me a confidant. In a word, I am hip.� �You know?� �Everything!� �A colloquialism� explained Jimmy, �for all about Ogden, you know, the scheme, the plot, the enterprise� Ann found nothing to say. I am thoroughly in favor of the plan, so much so that I propose to assist you by taking Jerry's place.� �I don't understand.� �Do you remember at lunch that day, after that remarkable person had mistaken me for Jimmy Crocker, you suggested in a light, casual way that if I were to walk into your uncle's office and claim to be Jimmy Crocker, I should be welcomed without a question. I am going to do it. Then once aboard the Lugger, once in the house, I am at your orders. Use me exactly as you would have used Jerry Mitchell.� �But, but� �Jerry� said Jimmy scornfully. �Can't I do everything that he could have done?� �And more!� �A bonehead like Jerry would have been certain to have bungled the thing somehow. I know him well, a good fellow, but in matters require any intellect and swift thought dead from the neck up. It's a very lucky thing he is out of the running. I love him like a brother, but his dome is of ivory. This job requires a man of tact, sense, shrewdness, initiative, esprit, and verve,� he paused, �me� he concluded. �But it's ridiculous, it's out of the question.� �Not at all. I must be extraordinarily like Jimmy Crocker, or that fellow at the restaurant wouldn't have taken me for him. Leave this in my hands. I can get away with it. �I shan't dream of allowing you.� �At nine o�clock tomorrow morning,� said Jimmy firmly, �I present myself at Mr. Pett's office. It's all settled.� Ann was silent. She was endeavoring to adjust her mind to the idea. Her first startled revulsion from it had begun to wane. It was an idea peculiarly suited to her temperament, an idea she might have suggested herself if she had thought of it. Soon, from being disapproving, she found herself glowing with admiration for its author. He was a young man of her own sort. �You asked me on the boat, if you remember,� said Jimmy, �if I had an adventurous soul. I am now submitting my proofs. You also spoke highly of America as a land where there were adventures to be had. I now see that you were right.� Ann thought for a moment. �If I consent to your doing this insane thing, Mr. Bayless, will you promise me something? �Anything.� �Well, in the first place, I absolutely refuse to let you risk all sorts of frightful things by coming into this kidnapping plot.� She waved him down and went on. �But I see where you can help me very much. As I told you at lunch, my aunt would do anything for Jimmy Crocker if he were to appear in New York now. I want you to promise that you will confine your activities to asking her to let Jerry Mitchell come back. �Never! You said you would promise me anything. Anything but that! Then it is all off.� Jimmy pondered. �It's terribly tame that way. Never mind. It's the only way I will consider.� �Very well. I protest, though.� Ann sat down. �I think you're splinted, Mr. Bayless. I'm much obliged.� �Not at all. �It will be such a splendid thing for Ogden, won't it? Admirable. �Now the only thing to do is just to see that we have got everything straight. How about this, for instance? They will ask you when you arrive to New York. How are you going to account for your delay in coming to see them? �I've thought of that. There's a boat that docks tomorrow, the Caronia, I think. I've got a paper upstairs. I'll look it up. I can say I came by her. �That seems all right. It's lucky you and Uncle Peter never met on the Atlantic. And now, as to my demeanor on entering the home, how should I behave? Should I be jaunty or humble? What would a long-lost nephew naturally do? �A long-lost nephew with a record like Jimmy Crocker's would crawl in with a white flag, I should think.� A bell clanged in the hall. �Supper!� said Jimmy, �to go into painful details, New England to boil dinner, or my senses deceive me, and prunes. �I must be going. We shall meet at Philippi.� He saw her to the door and stood at the top of the steps watching her trim figure vanish into the dusk. She passed from his sight. Jimmy drew a deep breath and, thinking hard, went down the passage to fortify himself with supper. Chapter 12 of Piccadilly Gym. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 12. Jimmy Catches the Boss's Eye. When Jimmy arrived at Mr. Pett's office on Pine Street at 10.30 the next morning, his expressed intention of getting up early enough to be there by nine having proved an empty boast. He was in a high state of preparedness. He had made ready for what might be a trying interview by substituting a combination of well-chosen dishes and an expensive hotel for the less imaginative boarding-house breakfast, with which he had of late been insulting his interior. His suit was pressed, his shoes gleamed brightly, and his chin was smoothly shaven. These things, combined with the perfection of the morning and that vague exhilaration which a fine day in downtown New York brings to the man who has not got to work, increased his natural optimism. Things seemed to tell him that all would be well. He would have been the last person to deny that his position was a little complicated. He had to use a pencil and a sheet of paper to show himself just where he stood, but what of that? A few complications in life are an excellent tonic for the brain. It was with a sunny genealogy which startled that unaccustomed stripling considerably and indeed caused him to swallow his chewing gum that he handed in his card to Mr. Pett's watchfully waiting office boy. �This to the boss, my open-faced lad,� he said, �get swiftly off the mark.� The boy departed dumbly. From where he stood, outside the barrier which separated visitors to the office from workers within, Jimmy could see a vista of efficient looking young men with paper protectors round their cuffs, working away at mysterious jobs which seemed to involve the use of a great deal of paper. One in particular was so surrounded by it that he had the appearance of a bather in surf. Jimmy eyed these toilers with a comfortable and kindly eye. All this industry made him feel happy. He liked to think of this sort of thing going on all round him. The office boy returned, �This way, please.� The respectfulness of the lad's manner had increased noticeably. Mr. Pett's reception of the visitor's name had impressed him. It was an odd fact that the financier, a cipher in his own home, could impress all sorts of people at the office. To Mr. Pett, the announcement that Mr. James Crocker was waiting to see him had come like the announcement of a miracle. Not a day had passed since their return to America without lamentations from Mrs. Pett on the subject of their failure to secure the young man's person. The occasion of Mrs. Pett's reading of the article in the Sunday Chronicle, descriptive of the Lord Percy Whipple affair, had been unique in the little man's domestic history. For the first time since he had known her, the indomitable woman had completely broken down. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these. It might have been. And the thought that, if she had only happened to know it, she had had in her hands, during that interview with her sister in London, a weapon which would have turned defeat into triumph, was more than even Mrs. Pett's strong spirit could endure. When she looked back on that scene and recalled the airy way in which Mrs. Crocker had spoken of her stepson, best friend, Lord Percy Whipple, and realized that, at that very moment, Lord Percy had been recovering in bed from the effects of his first meeting with Jimmy Crocker, the iron entered into her soul, and she refused to be comforted. In the first instant of realization she thought of six separate and distinct things she could have said to her sister, each more crushing than the last, things which now she would never be able to say. And now, suddenly and unaccountably, the means was at hand for restoring her to her tranquil self-esteem. Jimmy Crocker, despite what his stepmother had said, probably an active defiance of her commands, had come to America after all. Pett's first thought was that his wife would, as he expressed it to himself, be tickled to death about this. Scarcely waiting for the office boy to retire, he leaped towards Jimmy like a gambling lamb, and slapped him on the back with every evidence of joy and friendliness. "'My dear boy,' he cried, "'my dear boy, I'm delighted to see you.' Jimmy was surprised, relieved, and pleased. He had not expected this warmth. A civil coldness had been the best he had looked for. He had been given to understand that in the Pett home he was regarded as the black sheep, and while one may admit a black sheep into the fold it does not follow that one must of necessity fawn upon him. "'You're very kind,' he said, rather startled. They inspected each other for a brief moment. Mr. Pett was thinking that Jimmy was a great improvement on the picture his imagination had drawn of him. He had looked for something tougher, something flashy and bloated. Jimmy, for his part, had taken an instant liking to the financier. He, too, had been misled by imagination. He had always supposed that these millionaires down Wall Streetway were keen, aggressive fellows with gimlet eyes and sharp tongues. On the boat he had only seen Mr. Pett from afar, and had had no means of estimating his character. He found him an agreeable little man. "'We had given up hope of your coming,' said Mr. Pett. A little manly penitence seemed to Jimmy to be in order. "'I never expected you would receive me like this. I thought I must have made myself rather unpopular.' Mr. Pett buried the past with a gesture. "'When did you land?' he asked. "'This morning on the Caronia.' "'Good passage! Excellent!' There was a silence. It seemed to Jimmy that Mr. Pett was looking at him rather more closely than was necessary for the actual enjoyment of his style of beauty. He was just about to throw out some light remark about the health of Mrs. Pett, or something about porpoises on the voyage, to add local color and verisimilitude when his heart missed a beat, as he perceived that he had made a blunder. Like many other amateur plotters, Anne and he had made the mistake of being too elaborate. It had struck them as an ingenious idea for Jimmy to pretend that he had arrived that morning, and superficially it was a good idea. But now he remembered for the first time that if he had seen Mr. Pett on the Atlantic, the probability was that Mr. Pett had seen him. The next moment the other had confirmed this suspicion. "'I've an idea I've seen you before. Can't think where.' "'Everybody well at home?' said Jimmy. "'I'm sure of it.' "'I'm looking forward to seeing them all.' "'I've seen you someplace. I'm often there.' "'Eh?' Mr. Pett seemed to be turning the remark over in his mind trifle suspiciously. Jimmy changed the subject. "'To a young man like myself,' he said, with life opening out before him, there is something singularly stimulating in the sight of the modern office. How busy those fellows seem.' "'Yes,' said Mr. Pett. "'Yes. He was glad that this conversational note had been struck. He was anxious to discuss the future with this young man.' "'Everybody works but father,' said Jimmy. Mr. Pett started. "'Eh?' "'Nothing.' Mr. Pett was vaguely ruffled. He suspected insult, but could not pin it down. He abandoned his cheeriness, however, and became the man of business. "'I hope you intend to settle down now that you are here and work hard,' he said in a voice which he vainly tried to use on Ogden at home. "'Work,' said Jimmy, blankly.  That was my promise to your stepmother, and I shall fulfill it. But wait a minute. I don't get this. Do you mean to put me to work?' "'Of course. I'd take it that was why you came over here, because you realized how you were wasting your life and wanted a chance of making good in my office.' A hot denial trembled on Jimmy's tongue. Never had he been so misjudged. And then the thought of Anne checked him. He must do nothing that would interfere with Anne's plans. Whatever the cost, he must conciliate this little man. For a moment he mused sentimentally on Anne. He hoped that she would understand what he was going through for her sake. To a man with his ingrained distaste for work in any shape, the sight of those wage slaves outside there in the outer office had, as he had told Mr. Pet, been stimulating, but only because it filled him with a sort of spiritual uplift to think that he had not got to do that sort of thing. Consider them in light of fellow workers, and that spectacle seized to stimulate, and became nauseating. For her sake he was about to become one of them. Had any night of old ever done anything as big as that for his lady, he very much doubted it. All right, he said. Count me in. I take it that I shall have a job like one of those out there. Yes. Not presuming to dictate, I suggest that you give me something that will take some of the work off that fellow who's swimming in paper. Only the tip of his nose was above the surface as I passed through. I never saw so many fellows working so hard at the same time in my life. All trying to catch the boss's eye too, I suppose. It must make you feel like a snipe. Mr. Pet replied stiffly. He disliked this levity on the sacred subject of office work. He considered that Jimmy was not approaching his new life in the proper spirit. Many young men had discussed with him, in that room, the subject of working in his employment, but none in quite the same manner. You are at a serious point in your career, he said. You will have every opportunity of rising. Yes, at seven in the morning, I suppose. A spirit of levity, began Mr. Pet. I laugh that I may not weep, explained Jimmy. Try to think what this means to a bright young man who loathes work. Be kind to me, instruct your floor walkers to speak gently to me at first. It may be a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done, but don't ask me to enjoy it. It's all right for you, you're the boss. Any time you want to call it a day and go off and watch a ball game, all you have to do is leave word that you have an urgent date to see Mr. Rockefeller, whereas I shall have to submerge myself in paper and only come up for error when the danger of suffocation becomes too great. It may have been the mention of his favorite game that softened Mr. Pet, the frostiness which had crept into his manner thawed. It beats me, he said, why you ever came over at all, if you feel like that. Duty, said Jimmy, duty, there comes a time in the life of every man when he must choose between what is pleasant and what is right. And that last fool game of yours, that Lord Percy Whipple business, must have made London pretty hot for you, suggested Mr. Pet. Your explanation is less romantic than mine, but there is something in what you say. Had it occurred to you, young man, that I am taking a chance putting a fellow like you to work in my office. Have no fear, the little bit of work I shall do won't make any difference. I've have a mind to send you straight back to London. Couldn't we compromise? How? Well, haven't you some snug secretarial job you could put me into? I have an idea that I should make an ideal secretary. My secretary's work. I get you, cancel the suggestion. Mr. Pet rubbed his chin thoughtfully. You puzzle me, and that's the truth. Always speak the truth, said Jimmy approvingly. I'm darned if I know what to do with you. Well, you'd better come home with me now, anyway, and meet your aunt, and then we can talk things over. After all, the main thing is to keep you out of mischief. You put things crudely, but no doubt you are right. You'll live with us, of course. Thank you very much. This is the right spirit. I'll have to talk to Nesta about you. There may be something you can do.  Why don't you get to work on a paper again? You used to do that well. I don't think my old paper would welcome me now. They regard me rather as an entertaining news item than a worker. That's true. Say, why on earth did you make such a fool of yourself over on the other side? That breach of promise case with the barmaid, said Mr. Pet reproachfully. Let bygones be bygones, said Jimmy. I was more sinned against than sinning. You know how it is, Uncle Pete. Mr. Pet started violently, but said nothing. You try out of pure goodness of heart to scatter light and sweetness and protect the poor working girl, like heaven, and brighten up her lot, and so on, and she turns right around and soaks it to you good. And anyway, she wasn't a barmaid. She worked in a florist's shop. I don't see that that makes any difference. All the difference in the world, all the difference between sordid and the poetical. I don't know if you have ever experienced the hypnotic intoxication of a florist's shop. Take it from me, Uncle Pete. Any girl can look like an angel as long as she is surrounded by choice blooms. I couldn't help myself. I wasn't responsible. I only woke up when I met her outside. But all that sort of thing is different now. I am another man. Sober, steady, serious-minded. Mr. Pet had taken the receiver from the telephone and was talking to someone. The buzzing of a feminine voice came to Jimmy's ears. Mr. Pet hung up the receiver. Your aunt says we're to come up at once. I'm ready, and it will be a good excuse for you to knock off work. I'll bet you're glad I came. Does the carriage await, or shall we take the subway? I guess it will be quicker to take the subway. Your aunt's very surprised that you were here, and very pleased. I'm making everybody happy today. Mr. Pet was looking at him in a meditative way. Jimmy caught his eye.  Why the glance? I was just thinking of something. Jimmy prompted his nephew. Add the word Jimmy to your remarks. It will help me to feel at home and enable me to overcome my shyness. Mr. Pet chuckled. Shyness, if I had your nerve. He broke off with a sigh and looked at Jimmy affectionately.  At least you're not, but you're different from that gang of, of that crowd uptown. What crowd? Your aunt is literary, you know. She's filled the house with poets and that sort of thing. It will be a treat having you around. You're human. I don't see that we're going to make much of you now that you're here, but I'm darn glad you've come, Jimmy. Put it there, Uncle Pete, said Jimmy. You're all right. You're the finest captain of industry I ever met. End of Chapter 12 Reading by Gary McFadden Chapter 13 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 13 Slight Complications They left the subway at 96th Street and walked up the drive. Jimmy, like everyone else who saw it for the first time, experienced a slight shock at the sight of the pet mansion, but rallying followed his uncle up the flagged path to the front door. Your aunt will be in the drawing room, I guess, said Mr. Pet, opening the door with his key. Jimmy was looking round him appreciatively. Mr. Pet's house might be an eyesore from without, but inside it had had the benefit of the skill of the best interior decorator in New York. A man could be happy in a house like this if he didn't have to poison his days with work, said Jimmy. Mr. Pet looked alarmed. Don't go saying anything like that to your aunt, he urged. She thinks you have come to settle down. So I have. I'm going to settle down like a limpet. I hope I shall be living in luxury on you twenty years from now. Is this the room? Mr. Pet opened the drawing room door. A small hairy object sprang from a basket and stood yapping in the middle of the room. This was Aida, Mrs. Pet's Pomeranian. Mr. Pet, avoiding the animal coldly, for he disliked it, ushered Jimmy into the room. Here's Jimmy Cawker, Nesta. Jimmy was aware of a handsome woman of middle age, so like his stepmother that, for an instant, his self-possession left him and he stammered. Ah, how do you do? His demeanor made a favorable impression on Mrs. Pet. She took it for the decent confusion of remorse. I was very surprised when your uncle telephoned me, she said. I had not the slightest idea that you were coming over. I'm very glad to see you. Thank you. This is your cousin, Ogden.  He had not risen on Jimmy's entrance, and he did not rise now. He did not even lower the book he was reading. Hello, he said. Jimmy crossed over to the settee and looked down on him. He had gotten over his momentary embarrassment, and, as usual with him, the reaction led to a fatal breeziness. He prodded Ogden in his well-covered ribs, producing a yelp of protest from that astounded youth. So this is Ogden. Well, well, well. You don't grow up, Ogden, but you do grow out. What are you, a perfect sixty-six? The favourable impression which Mrs. Pet had formed of her nephew waned. She was shocked by this disrespectful attitude towards the child she worshipped. Please do not disturb, Ogden, James, she said stiffly. He's not feeling very well today. His stomach is weak. Been eating too much? said Jimmy, cheerfully. I was just the same at his age. What he wants is half rations and plenty of exercise. Say, protested Ogden. Just look at this, preceded Jimmy, grasping a handful of superfluous tissue around the boy's ribs.  I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll buy a pair of flannel trousers and a sweater and some sneakers, and I'll take him for a run-up riverside drive this evening. Do him no end of good. And a good skipping-rope, too. Nothing like it. In a couple of weeks I'll have him fit as a— Ogden's case, said Mrs. Pet coldly, which is very complicated, is in the hands of Dr. Brigginshaw. In whom we have every confidence. There was a silence, the paralyzing effects of which Mr. Pet vainly tried to mitigate by shuffling his feet and coughing. Mrs. Pet spoke. I hope that now you will hear, James, you intend to settle down and work hard. Indubitably, like a beaver, said Jimmy, mindful of Mr. Pet's recent warning, the only trouble is that there seems to be a little uncertainty as to what I am best fitted for. We talked it over in Uncle Pete's office, and arrived at no conclusion. Can't you think of anything? said Mr. Pet. I looked right through the telephone-classified directory the other day. The other day, but you only landed this morning. I mean this morning, when I was looking up your address so that I could go and see you, said Jimmy glibly. It seems a long time ago. I think the sight of all those fellows in your office has aged me. I think the best plan would be for me to settle down here and learn how to be an electrical engineer, or something by mail. I was reading an advertisement in a magazine as we came up on the subway. I see the guarantee to teach you anything from sheet metalworking to poultry raising.  It seemed to me to apply to my case exactly. I had better drop them a line tonight, asking for a few simple facts about chickens. Whatever comment Mrs. Pet might have made on this suggestion was checked by the entrance of Anne. From the window of her room, Anne had observed the arrival of Jimmy and her uncle, and now, having allowed sufficient time to elapse for the former to make Mrs. Pet's acquaintance, she came down to see how things were going. She was well satisfied with what she saw, a slight strain which she perceived in the atmosphere she attributed to embarrassment natural to the situation. She looked at Jimmy inquiringly. Mrs. Pet had not informed her of Mr. Pet's telephone call, so Jimmy, she realized, had to be explained to her. She waited for someone to say something. Mr. Pet undertook the introduction. Jimmy, this is my niece, Anne Chester. This is Jimmy Crocker, Anne. Jimmy could not admire sufficiently the start of surprise which she gave. It was artistic and convincing. Jimmy Crocker! Mr. Pet was on the point of mentioning that this was not the first time Anne had met Jimmy, but refrained. After all, that interview had happened five years ago. Jimmy had almost certainly forgotten all about it. There was no use in making him feel unnecessarily awkward. It was up to Anne. If she wanted to disinter the ancient grievance, let her. It was no business of his. I thought you weren't coming over, said Anne. I changed my mind. Mr. Pet, who had been gazing attentively at them, uttered an exclamation. I've got it! I've been trying all the while to think where it was that I saw you before. It was on the Atlantic. Anne caught Jimmy's eye. She was relieved to see that he was not disturbed by this sudden development. Did you come over on the Atlantic, Mr. Crocker? She said. Surely not. We crossed on her ourselves. We should have met. Don't call me, Mr. Crocker, said Jimmy. Call me Jimmy. Your mother's brother's wife's sister's second husband is my father. Blood is thicker than water. No, I came over on the Caronia. We docked this morning. Well, there was a fellow just like you on the Atlantic. Persisted, Mr. Pet. Mrs. Pet said nothing. She was watching Jimmy with a keen and suspicious eye. I suppose I'm a common type, said Jimmy. You remember the man I mean? Said Mr. Pet, innocently unconscious of the unfriendly thoughts he was encouraging in two of his hearers. He set two tables away from us at meals. You remember him, Nesta? As I was too unwell to come to meals, I do not. Why, I thought I saw you once talking to him on deck, Anne. Really? said Anne. I don't remember anyone who looked at all like Jimmy. Well, said Mr. Pet, puzzled. It's very strange. I guess I'm wrong. He looked at his watch. Well, I'll have to be getting back to the office. I'll come with you part of the way, Uncle Pete, said Jimmy. I have to go on a range for my things to be expressed here. Why not phone to the hotel? said Mr. Pet. It seemed to Jimmy and Anne that he was doing this sort of thing on purpose. Which hotel did you leave them at? No, I shall have to go there. I have some packing to do. You will be back to lunch? said Anne. Thanks! I shan't be gone more than half an hour. For a moment after they had gone, Anne relaxed, happy and relieved. Everything had gone splendidly. Then a shock ran through her whole system as Mrs. Pet spoke. She spoke excitedly in a lowered voice, leaning over to Anne. Anne, did you notice anything? Did you suspect anything? Anne mastered her emotion with an effort. What ever do you mean, Aunt Nesta? About that young man who calls himself Jimmy Crocker. Anne clutched the sight of the chair. Who calls himself Jimmy Crocker? I don't understand. Anne tried to laugh. It seemed to her in age before she produced any sound at all, and when it came it was quite unlike a laugh. What put that idea into your head? Surely, if he says he is Jimmy Crocker, it's rather absurd to doubt him, isn't it? How could anybody except Jimmy Crocker know that you were anxious to get Jimmy Crocker over here? You didn't tell anyone, did you? This reasoning shook Mrs. Pet a little, but she did not intend to abandon a perfectly good suspicion, merely because it began to seem unreasonable. They have their spies everywhere, she said doggedly. Who have? The Secret Service people from other countries. Lord Wisbeach was telling me about it yesterday. He said I ought to suspect everybody. He said an attempt might be made on Willie's invention at any moment now. He was joking. He was not. I have never seen anyone so serious. He said I ought to regard every fresh person who came into the house as a possible criminal. Well, that guy's fresh enough, muttered Ogden from the setee. Mrs. Pet started. Ogden, I had forgotten that you were there. She uttered a cry of horror, as the fact of his presence started a new train of thought. Why, this man may have come to kidnap you. I never thought of that. Anne felt at time to intervene. Mrs. Pet was hovering, much too near the truth, for comfort. You mustn't imagine things, Aunt Nesta. I believe it comes from writing the sort of stories you do. Surely it is impossible for this man to be an imposter. How would he dare take such a risk? He must know that you could detect him at any moment, by cabling over to Mrs. Crocker, to ask if her stepson was really in America. It was a bold stroke, for it suggested a plan of action which, if followed, would mean ruin for her schemes, but Anne could not refrain from chancing it. She wanted to know whether her aunt had any intention of asking Mrs. Crocker for information, or whether the feud was too bitter for her pride to allow her to communicate with her sister in any way. She breathed again as Mrs. Pet stiffened grimly in her chair. I should not dream of cabling to Eugenia. I quite understand that, said Anne, but an imposter would not know that you felt like that, would he? I see what you mean. Anne relaxed again. The relief was, however, only momentary. I cannot understand, though, said Mrs. Pet, why your uncle should have been so positive that he saw this young man on the Atlantic. Just a chance resemblance, I suppose. Why, Uncle Peter said he saw the man whom he imagined was like Jimmy Crocker talking to me, if there had been any real resemblance, shouldn't I have seen it before, Uncle Peter? Assistance came from an unexpected quarter. I know the chap Uncle Peter meant, said Ogden, he wasn't like this guy at all. Anne was too grateful for the help to feel astonished at it. Her mind, dwelling for a mere instant on the matter, decided that Ogden must have seen her on deck with somebody else than Jimmy. She had certainly not lacked during the voyage for those who sought her society. Mrs. Pet seemed to be impressed. I may be letting my imagination run away with me, she said. Of course you are, Aunt Nesta, said Anne, thankfully. You don't realize what a vivid imagination you have got. When I was typing that last story of yours, I was simply astounded at the ideas you had thought of. I remember saying so to Uncle Peter. You can't expect to have a wonderful imagination like yours, and not imagine things, can you? Mrs. Pet smiled demurely. She looked hopefully at her niece, waiting for more, but Anne had said her say. You were perfectly right, my dear child, she said, when she was quite sure the eulogy was not to be resumed. No doubt I have been foolish to suspect this young man, but Lord Wis Beach's words naturally acted more strongly on a mind like mine than they would have done in the case of another woman. Of course, said Anne. She was feeling quite happy now. It had been tense while it had lasted, but everything was all right now. Unfortunately, said Mrs. Pet, there is a way which we can find out for certain, if the young man is really James Crocker. Anne became rigid again. A way? What way? Why, don't you remember, my dear, that Skinner has known James Crocker for years? Skinner. The name sounded familiar, but in the stress of the moment Anne could not identify it. My new butler! He came to me straight from Eugenia. It was he who let us in when we called at her house. Nobody could know better than he whether this person is really James Crocker or not. Anne felt as if she had struggled to the limit of her endurance. She was not prepared to cope with this unexpected blow. She had not the strength to rally under it. Dolly, she perceived that her schemes must be dismissed as a failure before they had had a chance of success. Her accomplice must not return to the house to be exposed. She saw that clearly enough. If he came back, he would walk straight into a trap. She rose quickly. She must warn him. She must intercept him before he arrived, and he might arrive at any moment now. Of course, she said, studying herself with an effort. I never thought of that. That makes it all simple. I hope lunch won't be late. I am hungry. She sauntered to the door, but, directly she had closed it behind her, ran to her room, snatched up a hat, and rushed downstairs and out into Riverside Drive. Just as she reached the street, Jimmy turned the corner. She ran towards him, holding up her hands. End of Chapter 13. Reading by Gary McFadden Piccadilly Jim by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 14 Lord Wisbeach Jimmy halted in his tracks. The apparition had startled him. He had been thinking of Anne, but he had not expected her to bound out at him, waving her arms. What's the matter, he inquired? Anne pulled him towards the side street. You mustn't go to the house. Everything has gone wrong. Everything gone wrong? I thought I had made a hit. I have with your uncle, anyway. We parted on the friendliest terms. We have arranged to go to the ball-game together, tomorrow. He is going to tell them at the office that Carnegie wants to see him. It isn't, Uncle Peter. It's Aunt Nesta. Ah, there you touched my conscience. I was a little tactless, I'm afraid, with Ogden. It happened before you came into the room. I suppose that is the trouble. It has nothing to do with that, said Anne, impatiently. It's much worse. Aunt Nesta is suspicious. She has guessed that you aren't really Jimmy Crocker. Great Scott, how? I tried to calm her down, but she still suspects. So now she has decided to wait and see if Skinner, the butler, knows you. If he doesn't, she will know that she was right. Jimmy was frankly puzzled. I don't quite follow the reasoning. Surely it's a peculiar kind of test. Why should she think a man cannot be honest and true, unless her butler knows him? There must be hundreds of worthy citizens whom he does not know. Skinner arrived from England a few days ago. Until then he was employed by Mrs. Crocker. Now do you understand? Jimmy stopped. She had spoken slowly and distinctly, and there could be no possibility that he had misunderstood her, yet he scarcely believed that he had heard her all right. How could a man named Skinner have been his stepmother's butler? Bayless had been with the family ever since they had arrived in London. Are you sure? Of course, of course I'm sure. Aunt Nesta told me herself. There can't possibly be a mistake, because it was Skinner who let her in when she called on Mrs. Crocker. Uncle Peter told me about it. He had a talk with the man in the hall, and found that he was a baseball enthusiast. A wild, impossible idea flashed upon Jimmy. It was so absurd that he felt ashamed of entertaining it, even for a moment. But strange things were happening these times, and it might be. What sort of looking man is Skinner? Oh, stout, clean shaven. I like him. He's much more human than I thought butlers ever were. Why? Oh, nothing. Of course you can't go back to the house. You see that. He would say that you aren't Jimmy Crocker, and then you would be arrested. I don't see that. If I am sufficiently like Crocker for his friends to mistake me for him in restaurants, why shouldn't this butler mistake me too? But, and to consider, in any case, there's no harm done. If he fails to recognize me when he opens the door to us, we shall know that the game is up, and I shall have plenty of time to disappear. If the likeness deceives him, all will be well. I propose that we go to the house, ring the bell, and when he appears, I will say, Ah, Skinner, honest fellow, or words to that effect. He will either stare blankly at me, or fawn on me like a faithful watchdog. We will base our further actions on which way the butler jumps. The sound of the bell died away. Footsteps were heard. Anne reached for Jimmy's arm and clutched it. Now, she whispered. The door opened. Next moment Jimmy's suspicion was confirmed. Gaping at them from the open doorway, wonderfully respectable, and butler-like in swallow-tails, stood his father. How he came to be there, and why he was there, Jimmy did not know, but there he was. Jimmy had little faith in his father's talents as a man of discretion. The elder crocker was one of the simple, straightforward people who, when surprised, do not conceal their surprise, and who, not understanding any situation in which they find themselves, demand explanation on the spot. Swift in immediate action was indicated on his part, before his amazed parent, finding him on the steps of the one house in New York where he was least likely to be, should utter words that would undo everything. He could see the name Jimmy trembling on Mr. Crocker's lips. He waved his hand cheerily. Ah, Skinner, there you are, he said, breezily. Miss Chester was telling me that you had left my stepmother. I suppose you sailed on the boat before mine. I came over on the Caronia. I suppose you didn't expect to see me again so soon, eh? A spasm seemed to pass over Mr. Crocker's face, leaving it calm and serene. He had been thrown his cue, and like the old actor he was, he took it easily and without confusion. He smiled a respectful smile. No indeed, sir. He stepped aside to allow them to enter. Jimmy caught Anne's eye as she passed him. It shone with relief and admiration, and it exhilarated Jimmy like wine. As she moved towards the stairs, he gave expression to his satisfaction by slapping his father on the back with a report that rang out like a pistol shot. What was that, said Anne, turning? Something out on the drive, I think, said Jimmy. A car backfiring, I fancy, Skinner. Very probably, sir. He followed Anne to the stairs. As he started to mount them, a faint whisper reached his ears. At a boy! It was Mr. Crocker's way of bestowing a father's blessing. Anne walked into the drawing room, her head high, triumphed in the glance at which she cast upon her unconscious aunt. Quite an interesting little scene downstairs, Aunt Nesta, she said. The meeting of the faithful old retainer and the young master. Skinner was almost overcome with surprise and joy when he saw Jimmy. Mrs. Pett could not check an incautious exclamation. Did Skinner recognize? She began, then stopped herself abruptly. Anne laughed. Did he recognize Jimmy? Of course. He was hardly likely to have forgotten him, surely. It isn't much more than a week since he was waiting on him in London. It was a very impressive meeting, said Jimmy. Rather like the reunion of Ulysses and the hound Argos, of which this bright-eyed child here, he patted Ogden on the head, a proceeding violently resented by that youth, has no doubt read in the course of his research as into the classics. I was Ulysses. Skinner enacted the role of the exuberant dog. Mrs. Pett was not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed at this evidence that her suspicions had been without foundation. On the whole, relief may be said to have preponderated. I have no doubt he was pleased to see you again. He must have been very much astonished. He was. He will be meaning another old friend in a minute or two, said Mrs. Pett. Jimmy had been sinking into a chair. This remark stopped him in mid-descent. Another. Mrs. Pett glanced at the clock. Lord Wisbeech is coming to lunch. Lord Wisbeech, cried Anne, he doesn't know Jimmy. Eugenia informed me in London that he was one of your best friends, James. Anne looked helplessly at Jimmy. She was conscious again of that feeling of not being able to cope with fates blows, of not having the strength to go on climbing over the barriers which fate placed in her path. Jimmy, for his part, was cursing the ill fortune that had brought Lord Wisbeech across his path. He saw clearly that it only needed recognition by one or two more intimates of Jimmy Crocker to make Anne suspect his real identity. The fact that she had seen him with Bayless in Paddington Station and had fallen into the error of supposing Bayless to be his father had kept her from suspecting until now, but this could not last forever. He remembered Lord Wisbeech well as a garrulous, irrepressible chatterer who would probably talk about old times to such an extent as to cause Anne to realize the truth in the first five minutes. The door opened. Lord Wisbeech, announced Mr. Crocker. I'm afraid I'm late, Mrs. Pett, said his lordship. No, you're quite punctual. Lord Wisbeech, here is an old friend of yours, James Crocker. There was an almost imperceptible pause. Then Jimmy stepped forward and held out his hand. Hello, whizzy old man. Hello, Jimmy. Their eyes met. In his lordships there was an expression of unmistakable relief mingled with astonishment. His face, which had turned as sickly white, flushed as the blood poured back into it. He had the appearance of a man who had had a bad shock, and it's just getting over it. Jimmy, eyeing him curiously, was not surprised at his emotion. What the man's game might be he could not say. But of one thing he was sure, which was that this was not Lord Wisbeech, but, on the contrary, someone he had never seen before in his life. Luncheon is served, madam, said Mr. Crocker, sonorously, from the doorway. End of Chapter 14 Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 15 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 15 A Little Business Chat It was not often that Anne found occasion to rejoice at the presence, in her uncle's house, of the six geniuses whom Mrs. Pet had installed therein. As a rule she disliked them individually and collectively. But today their company was extraordinarily welcome to her. They might have their faults, but at least their presence tended to keep the conversation general, and prevent it becoming a dialogue between Lord Wisbeech and Jimmy on the subject of old times. She was still feeling weak, from the reaction consequent upon the slackening of the tension of her emotions on seeing Lord Wisbeech greet Jimmy as an old acquaintance. She had never hoped that that barrier would be surmounted. She had pictured Lord Wisbeech drawing back with a puzzled frown on his face and an astonished, but this is not Jimmy Crocker. The strain had left her relieved, but in no mood for conversation, and she replied absently to the remarks of Howard Bemis, the poet, who sat on her left. She looked round the table. Willie Partridge was talking to Mrs. Pet about the difference between picric acid and trinitrotoluene than which a pleasanter topic for the luncheon table could hardly be selected, and the voice of Clarence Renshaw rose above all other competing noises as he spoke of the functions of the trochaic spondy. There was nothing outwardly to distinguish this meal from any other which she had shared of late in that house. The only thing that prevented her relief being unmixed was the fact that she could see Lord Wisbeech casting furtive glances at Jimmy, who was eating with the quiet concentration of one who, after days of boarding house fare, finds himself in the presence of the masterpieces of a chef. In the past few days, Jimmy had consumed too much hash to worry now about anything like a furtive glance. He had perceived Lord Wisbeech's roving eye, and had no doubt that, at the conclusion of the meal, he would find occasion for a little chat. Meanwhile, however, his duty was towards his tissues and their restoration. He helped himself liberally from a dish which his father offered him. He became aware that Mrs. Pett was addressing him. I beg your pardon. Quite like old times, said Mrs. Pett genially. Her suspicions had vanished completely since Lord Wisbeech's recognition of the visitor, and remorse that she should have suspected him made her unwondedly amiable. Being with Skinner again, she explained, it must remind you of London. Jimmy caught his father's expressionless eye. Skinners, he said handsomely, is a character one cannot help but respect. His nature expands before one like some beautiful flower. The dish rocked in Mr. Crocker's hand, but his face remained impassive. There is no vice in Skinner, proceeded Jimmy. His heart is the heart of a little child. Mrs. Pett looked at this paragon of the virtues in rather a startled way. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being laughed at. She began to dislike Jimmy again. For many years Skinner has been a father to me, said Jimmy. Who ran to help me when I fell, and would some pretty story tell, or kiss the place to make it well? Skinner. For all her suspense and could not help warming towards an accomplice who carried off an unnerving situation with such a flourish. She had always regarded herself with a fair degree of complacency, as possessed of no mean stock of courage and resource, but she could not have spoken then without betraying her anxiety. She thought highly of Jimmy, but all the same she could not help wishing that he would not make himself quite so conspicuous. Perhaps, the thought chilled her, perhaps he was creating quite a new Jimmy Crocker, a character which would cause Skinner and Lord Wisbeach to doubt the evidence of their eyes, and begin to suspect the truth. She wished she could warn him to simmer down, but the table was a large one, and he and she were at opposite ends of it. Jimmy, meanwhile, was thoroughly enjoying himself. He felt that he was being the little ray of sunshine about the home, and making a good impression. He was completely happy. He liked the food, he liked seeing his father buttle, and he liked these amazing freaks who were, it appeared, fellow inmates with him of this highly desirable residence. He wished that old Mr. Pet could have been present. He had conceived a great affection for Mr. Pet, and registered a mental resolve to lose no time in weaning him from his distressing habit of allowing the office to interfere with his pleasures. He was planning a little trip to the polo grounds in which Mr. Pet, his father, and a number of pop bottles were to be his companions, when his reverie was interrupted by a sudden cessation of the buzz of talk. He looked up from his plate to find the entire company regarding Willie Partridge open-mouthed. Willie, with gleaming eyes, was gazing at a small test tube which he had produced from his pocket and placed beside his plate. I have enough in this test tube, said Willie eerily, to blow half New York to bits. The silence was broken by a crash in the background Mr. Crocker had dropped a chafing dish. If I were to drop this little test tube like that, said Willie, using the occurrence as a topic of illustration, we shouldn't be here. Don't drop it, advised Jimmy. What is it? Partridgeite. Mrs. Pet had risen from the table with a blanched face. Willie, how can you bring that stuff here? What are you thinking of? Willie smiles at patronizing smile. There is not the slightest danger, Aunt Nesta. It cannot explode without concussion. I have been carrying it about with me all the morning. He bestowed on the test tube the look a fond parent might give his favorite child. Mrs. Pet was not reassured. Go and put it in your uncle's safe at once. Put it away. I haven't the combination. Call your uncle up at once at the office and ask him. Very well, if you wish it, Aunt Nesta, but there is no danger. Don't take that thing with you! screamed Mrs. Pet as he rose. You might drop it! Come back for it! Very well. Conversation flagged after Willie's departure. The presence of the test tube seemed to act on the spirits of the company after the fashion of the corpse at the Egyptian banquet. Howard Bemis, who was sitting next to it, edged away imperceptibly till he nearly crowded Anne off her chair. Presently Willie returned. He picked up the test tube, put it in his pocket with a certain jauntiness, and left the room again. Now if you hear a sudden bang and find yourself disappearing through the roof, said Jimmy, that will be it. Willie returned and took his place at the table again, but the spirit had gone out of the gathering. The voice of Clarence Renshaw was hushed, and Howard Bemis spoke no more of the influence of Edgar Lee Masters on modern literature. Mrs. Pet left the room, followed by Anne. The geniuses drifted away one by one. Jimmy, having lighted a cigarette and finished his coffee, perceived that he was alone with his old friend, Lord Whizbeach, and that his old friend, Lord Whizbeach, was about to become confidential. The fair-haired young man opened the proceedings by going to the door and looking out. This done he returned to his seat and gazed fixedly at Jimmy. What's your game? he asked. Jimmy returned his gaze blandly. My game? he said. What do you mean? Can the coy stuff? urged his lordship brusquely. Talk sense and talk it quick. We may be interrupted at any moment. What's your game? What are you here for? Jimmy raised his eyebrows. I am a prodigal nephew, returned to the fold. Oh, quit your kidding! Are you one of Potter's lot? Who is Potter? You know who Potter is. On the contrary, my life has never been brightened by so much as a sight of Potter. Is that true? Absolutely. Are you working on your own, then? I am not working at all at present. There is some talk of my learning to be an asparagus adjuster, by mail, later on. You make me sick, said Lord Whizbeach. Where's the sense of trying to pull this line of talk? Why not put your cards on the table? We've both got in here on the same lay, and there's no use fighting and balling the thing up. Do you wish me to understand, said Jimmy, that you are not my old friend, Lord Whizbeach? No, and you are not my old friend, Jimmy Crocker. What makes you think that? If you had been, would you have pretended to recognize me upstairs just now?  Jimmy laughed. It would have been awkward for you if I really had been Jimmy Crocker, wouldn't it? And it would have been awkward for you if I had really been Lord Whizbeach. Who are you, by the way? The boys call me Gentleman Jack. Why? asked Jimmy, surprised. Lord Whizbeach ignored the question. I'm working with Berkslot just now. Say, let's be sensible about this. I'll be straight with you, straight as a string. Did you say string or spring? And I'll expect you to be straight with me. Are we to breathe confidences into each other's ears? Lord Whizbeach went to the door again, and submitted the passage to a second examination. You seem nervous, said Jimmy. I don't like that butler. He's up to something. Do you think he's one of Potter's lot? Shouldn't wonder. He isn't on the level, anyway. Or why did he pretend to recognize you as Jimmy Crocker? Recognition of me as Jimmy Crocker seems to be the acid test of honesty. He was in a tight place, same as I was, said Lord Whizbeach. He couldn't know that you weren't really Jimmy Crocker, until you put him wise, same as you did me, by pretending to know him. He looked at Jimmy with grudging admiration. You've got your nerve with you, pal. Coming in here like this? You were taking big chances. You couldn't have known you wouldn't run up against someone who really knew Jimmy Crocker. What would you have done if this butler guy had really been on the level? The risks of the profession. When I think of the work I had to put in, said Lord Whizbeach, it makes me tired to think of someone else just walking in here as you did. What made you choose Lord Whizbeach as your alias? I knew that I could get away with it. I came over on the boat with him, and I knew he was traveling round the world and wasn't going to stay more than a day in New York. Even then I had to go some to get into this place. Burke told me to get a hold of Old Chester and get a letter of introduction from him, and here you come along and just stroll in and tell them you have come to stay. He brooded for a moment on the injustice of things. Well, what are you going to do about it, pal? About what? About us both being here. Are you going to be sensible and work in with me and divvy up later on, or are you going to risk spoiling everything by trying to hog the whole thing? I'll be square with you. It isn't as if there was any use in trying to bluff each other. We're both here for the same thing. You want to get hold of that powder stuff, that partridgeite, and so do I. You believe in partridgeite, then? Oh, can it, said Lord Wisbeach, disgustedly. What's the use? Of course I believe in it. Burke's had his eye on the thing for a year. You've heard of Dwight Partridge, haven't you? Well, this guy's his son. Everyone knows that Dwight Partridge was working on an explosive when he died, and here's his son comes along with a test tube full of stuff which he says could blow this city to bits. What's the answer? The boy's been working on the old man's dope. From what I've seen of him, I guess there wasn't much more to be done on it, or he wouldn't have done it. He's pretty well dead from the neck up as far as I can see, but that doesn't alter the fact that he's got the stuff, and that you and I have got to get together and make a deal. If we don't? I'm not saying you might en-gum my game, just as I might gum yours. But where's the sense in that? It only means taking extra chances. Whereas if we sit in together, there's enough in it for both of us. You know as well as I do, there's a dozen markets which will bid against each other for stuff like that Partridgeite. If you're worrying about Burke giving you a square deal, forget it, I'll fix Burke. He'll treat you nice, all right?  I'm no orator, as Brutus is, but, as you know me all, a plain blunt man. And speaking in the capacity of a plain blunt man, I rise to reply, nothing doing. What, you won't come in? Jimmy shook his head. I'm sorry to disappoint you, whizzy, if I may still call you that, but your offer fails to attract. I will not get together, or sit in, or anything else. On the contrary, I am about to go to Mrs. Pitt and inform her that there is a snake in her Eden. You're not going to squeal on me? At the top of my voice. Lord Whizbeach laughed, unpleasantly. Yes, you will, he said. How are you going to explain why you recognize me as an old pal before lunch if I'm a crook after lunch? You can't give me away without giving yourself away. If I'm not Lord Whizbeach, then you're not Jimmy Crocker. Jimmy sighed. I get you, life is very complex, isn't it? Lord Whizbeach rose. You'd better think it over, son, he said.   I'll beat you to it. He left the room, and Jimmy, lighting a fresh cigarette, addressed himself to the contemplation of this new complication in his affairs. It was quite true what gentleman Jack, or Joe, or whatever the boys called him, had said. To denounce him meant denouncing himself. Jimmy smoked thoughtfully. Not for the first time he wished that his record during the past few years had been of a snowier character. He began to appreciate what must have been the feelings of Dr. Jekyll under the handicap of his disreputable second self, Mr. Hyde. End of Chapter 15 Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 16 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 16 Mrs. Pett Takes Precautions Mrs. Pett, on leaving the luncheon table, had returned to the drawing-room to sit beside the sixetie of her stricken child. She was troubled about Ogden. The poor lamb was not at all himself today. A bowl of clear soup, the midday meal prescribed by Dr. Brighenshaw, 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. Feed 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 strung 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 feeling. Mrs.  And, like everyone 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 settee breathed entorously. Faint snores proceeded from the basket in the corner where Ada, the Pomeranian, lay curled in refreshing sleep, through the open window floated sounds of warmth and summer. Yielding to the drowsy calm, Mrs. Pett was just nodding into a pleasant nap when the door opened and Lord Whizbeach came in. Lord Whizbeach had been doing some rapid thinking. Rapid thought is one of the essentials in the composition of men who are known as gentlemen 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 in 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 dollar schemer than Lord Whizbeach 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 he had come to the drawing-room now to put it into effect. His entrance shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Ada, who had been gurgling apoplectically, sprang snarling from the basket and made for the intruder open mouth. 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! Ada, 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. Pett, sweeping down, picked her up and held her in her lap, where she consented to remain growling, subdued defiance. Lord Whizbeach came out from behind his chair and sat down warily. Can I have a word with you, Mrs. Pett? Certainly, Lord Whizbeach. His lordship looked meaningly at Ogden. In private, you know. He then looked meaningly at Mrs. Pett. Ogden, darling, said Mrs. Pett, I think you had better go to your room and undress and get into bed.  With surprising docility the boy rose. All right, he said. Poor Oggy is not at all well today, said Mrs. Pett when he was gone. He is very subject to these attacks. What do you want to tell me, Lord Whizbeach?  Mrs. Pett, 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. Pett 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 Whizbeach, 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 Whizbeach impassively, is not your nephew. Mrs. Pett thrilled all down her spine. She had been right. But 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 that 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 recognized his 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 that 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 are sure that that is why he has come? What other reason could he have? I thought he might be trying to kidnap Ogden. Lord Wis Beach 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. Pett 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 Wis Beach, tonight, today! I think that would be the best plan. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for all you were doing. You have been so kind to me, Mrs. Pett, said Lord Wis Beach, 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 tonight, 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 Wis Beach! Not at all, replied his lordship. It will be a pleasure. He held out his hand, drawing it back rapidly, as the dog Ada 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. Pett remained for some minutes, thinking. She was aflame with excitement. She had a sensational mind, and it had absorbed Lord Wis Beach'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 had called himself Skinner. That was a point on which they had not touched the fact that one imposter was above stairs, the other below. It seemed to Mrs. Pett impossible that Lord Wis Beach, for all his seal, 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. Pett, 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 balm had been the daily interviews with the detectives. She ached a 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. Pett. There was no need to tell him. She could combine the installation of a detective with the nicest respect for 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. Pett 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. Sturgis, she said. Oh, Mr. Sturgis, said Mrs. Pett. I wonder if you could possibly run up here. Yes, now. This is Mrs. Peter Pett 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. Pett hung up the receiver. End of Chapter 16, Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 17 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 17 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 Wisbeach. 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 am 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 Wisbeach 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 Wisbeach 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 Wisbeach. 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'll 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 Wisbeach 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 shan't be twenty minutes. I shall come straight back. Jimmy found himself vaguely disquieted by this piece of information. Lord Wisbeach is coming to stay here? Yes, why? Oh, nothing. Well, I'll go and see Mrs. Pett. 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. Pett back in her chair, the dog Ada back in her basket. Mrs. Pett, her mind at ease now that she had taken the step of summoning Mr. Sturgis, was reading a book, one of her own, and was absorbed in it. The dog Ada slumbered noisily. The sight of Jimmy, however, roused Mrs. Pett from her literary calm. To her eye, after what Lord Wisbeach had revealed, there was something sinister in the very way he walked into the room. He made her flesh creep. In a society thug, Mobs and Steifen, $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 Tooke. It was only in the last chapter but one that they had managed to foil his outrageous machinations. And it seemed to her that here was Tooke in the flesh. She had pictured him, she remembered, as a man of agreeable exterior, the 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 less suitable frame of mind to receive graciously any kind of a 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 Tooke's pleasant smile had been his deadliest weapon. Under its influence, deluded people had trusted him alone with their jewelry and whatnot. Aunt Nesta, said Jimmy, I wonder if I might ask you a personal favor. Mrs. Pett shuddered at the glibness with which he brought out the familiar name. This was Super Tooke. Marsden himself, scoundrel as he was, could not have called her Aunt 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. Pett 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. Pett 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. Pett. 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. Pett, and I was opposed to Mitchell coming into the house from the first. You wouldn't let him come back, I suppose, quarried 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 Anne 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. Pett. 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. Pett, the first time Jimmy had ever heard that remarkable monosyllable proceed from human lips. He took it, rightly, to be intended to convey disapproval, skepticism, and annoyance. He was convinced that this mission was going to be one of his failures. Then may I tell him, he said, that it's all right? That what is all right? That he may come back here? Certainly not. Mrs. Pett 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 Whispitch 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 who 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 those 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. Sturgis would be arriving soon if he had really started at once from his office, as he had promised. She drew comfort from the eminence 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 you came straight up here with him. I am interested to know when you did see Mitchell. She regretted this, stressed 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 Tooke would have got out of it. Tooke 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.  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. Sturgis. 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 a popular club man. 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. Sturgis sat down, pulled up the knees of his trousers, that half-inch which keeps them from bagging, and so preserves the gentlemanliness 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. Sturgis. Mr. Sturgis 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. Sturgis 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 suspicion was the fact that my husband thought he remembered this young man as a fellow traveler of ours on the Atlantic, on our return voyage, while he claimed to have landed that morning on the Caronia. You were 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 state room 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. Sturgis, glancing keenly at the dog Ada, 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 Wisbeach, an English peer, whom we have known intimately for a very long time. He is one of the Shropshire Wisbeaches, you know. No doubt, said Mr. Sturgis. Lord Wisbeach used to be an 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, it was certainly not James Crocker my nephew. She broke off and looked at Mr. Sturgis expectantly, the detective smiled a quiet smile. And even that is not all. There is another thing Mr. Pet 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. Sturgis? The detective closed his eyes and smiled his quiet smile again. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Mrs. Pet. As pretty a case as I have come across in years, he said, Mrs. Pet, 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. Pet uttered an exclamation. And the sputler of yours, Skinner, shall I tell you something about him? You perhaps know that when the big detective agencies, Anderson's 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 were very glad to do Anderson's service, and Anderson's are big enough to be able to afford to let us do it. Now, a few days ago, a friend of mine in Anderson's came to me with a chief of photographs, which had 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 Anderson's had been asked to trace him and make a report. My peculiar gift for remembering faces has enabled me to oblige the Anderson 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 presentment of a stout, good-humored man of middle age, whose solemn gaze dwelt on the middle distance in that fixed way 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, 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 cannot 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 Wis Beach thought that they were trying to steal my nephew's explosive. Perhaps you have read in the papers that my nephew, Willie 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. Sturgis 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 tube full of the explosive. He put it in my husband's safe in the library. Lord Wis Beach 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. Sturgis 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. Pitt doubtfully. A woman in a thousand, said Mr. Sturgis. A woman in a million. But physically, would a woman be? Miss Trimble knows more about Jujutsu than the Japanese professor who taught her. At one time she was 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 it 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. Pitt opened the stuffed owl. The detective got in touch with his office. Mr. Sturgis speaking. Tell Miss Trimble to come to the phone. Miss Trimble? I am speaking from Mrs. Pitt'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. Pitt. 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 have 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 had better go now, Mrs. Pitt. It would not do for me to be here while these fellows are on their guard. I can safely leave the matter to Miss Trimble. I wish you good afternoon. After he had gone, Mrs. Pitt mainly 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 and grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble must be walking to the house instead of journeying dither 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. Pitt'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. Pitt 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 the situation. Show her up, her 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. Pitt 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. Pitt'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. Pitt 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. Pitt 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. Pitt, 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. Pitt 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. "'Good afternoon,' said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pitt 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, Sis. Pitt. Mr. Sturge sent me up. Said you had a job for me. Come here, squicka-squid." "'I beg your pardon?' Squicka-squid got slow taxi. "'Oh, yes.' Miss Trimble's right eye flashed about the room like a searchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on her companion's face. "'What's the trouble?' The right eye rested for a moment on a magnificent carot over the mantelpiece, and she sniffed again. "'Not surprised you have trouble. All rich people have trouble. Nothing to do with the time, except getting trouble.' She frowned disapprovingly at a conoletto. "'You appear to dislike the rich,' said Mrs. Pitt, as nearly in her grand manner as she could contrive. Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner, as if it had been a small fowl, and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed it flat. "'Hit him, Socialist!' "'I beg your pardon,' said Mrs. Pitt humbly. This woman was beginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent. "'Socialist, no use for the idle rich. Ever read Bernard Shaw? Huh? Was opt-in-sinclear? Read him? Make you think a bit? Well, you haven't told me what's the trouble.' Mrs. Pitt was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturges, in a career 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. Pitt, 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 manner, 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 seized 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 in existence. I want you, said Mrs. Pitt, to come here and watch some men. Men, thought so, with his trouble, always meant bottom of it. You do not like men? Hate them, suavchist! She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pitt. Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow. You sport her cause? Mrs. Pitt 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 to this morning, pretending to be my nephew James Crocker. He is an imposter. I want you to watch him carefully. What's 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 he is. He's a crook. Mrs. Pitt opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent at her work. Have you found that out already? Directly saw him, Ms. Trimble opened her purse. Got one's photographs here, brought it from office. He's the man that's wanted, all right. Mr. Sturgess and I 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. Pitt. My nephew, Mr. William Partridge, has invented a wonderful explosive, and it is quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it. Sure, men will do anything. If you put all men in the world in the cooler, wouldn't be any more crime. She glowered at the dog, Ada, who had risen from the basket and was removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series of calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of masculinity. Mrs. Pitt could not help wondering what tragedy in the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor. Ms. Trimble had not the appearance of one who would be lightly deceived by man, still lest the appearance of one whom man, unless short-sighted 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 Ms. Trimble. I beg your pardon. More facts. Spill them. Oh, I understand, said Mrs. Pitt hastily, and embarked on a brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her to desire skilled assistance. Lo, we speak, said Ms. 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. Pitt indignantly. He's a great friend of mine. All right, well, I guess that about all, huh? I'm going downstairs and starting in. You can come here immediately? Sure. Got Parliament rigged around my boarding house, round corner. Come back within ten minutes. Same dress I used when I was working on the Marlin divorce case. Do you know the Marlins? I had a rich. Bound again in trouble. I fixed them. Well, goodbye. Must be going. No time to waste. Mrs. Pitt leaned back faintly in her chair. She felt overcome. Downstairs, on her way out, Ms. 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. I'll reach, she muttered scornfully. 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 coiled. He had that consciousness of guilt which philosophers tell us 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 Ms. Trimble, I'm coming near his parlor main. Oh, ah, said Mr. Crocker feebly.