Part 38 (1/2)

And, say, Aunty don't even glare after us as we slips through the draperies into the lib'ry, leavin' 'em to explain to each other how I come to be on hand so accidental. The only disturbance comes when Selma b.u.t.ts in pus.h.i.+n' the tea cart, and, just from force of habit, I makes a panicky breakaway. After she's insisted on loadin' us up with sandwiches and so forth, though, I slips my arm back where it fits the snuggest.

”Now, Sir,” says Vee, ”how are you going to hold your cup?”

”I'd be willin' to miss out on tea forever,” says I, ”for a chance like this.”

CHAPTER XV

MR. ROBERT AND A CERTAIN PARTY

We was havin' a directors' meetin'. Get that, do you? _We_, you know!

For nowadays, as private sec. and actin' head of Mutual Funding, I crashes into all sorts of confidential pow-wows. Uh-huh! Right in where they put a crimp in the surplus and make plots to slip things over on the Commerce Board! Oh my, yes! I'm gettin' almost respectable enough to be indicted.

Well, we'd just pared the dividend on common and was about breakin' up the session when Mr. Robert misses some figures on export clearances he'd had made up and was pawin' about on the table aimless.

”Didn't I see you stowin' that away in one of your desk pigeonholes yesterday?” I suggests.

”By George!” says he. ”Think you could find it for me, Torchy? And, by the way, bring along my cigarettes too. You will find them in a leather case somewhere about.”

I locates the export notes first stab; but the dope sticks ain't in sight. I claws through the whole top of the desk before I fin'lly discovers, shoved clear into a corner, a thin old blue morocco affair with a gold catch. By the time I gets back he's smokin' a borrowed brand and tosses the case one side.

Half an hour later the meetin' is over. Mr. Robert sighs relieved, bunches up a lot of papers in front of him, and begins feelin'

absent-minded in his pockets. Seein' which I pushes the leather case at him.

”Ah, yes, thanks,” says he, and snaps it open careless.

But no neat little row of paper pipes shows up. Inside is nothing but a picture, one of these d.i.n.ky portraits on ivory--mini'tures, ain't they?

It shows a young lady with a perky chin and kind of a quizzin' look in her eyes: not a reg'lar front row pippin', you know, but a fairly good looker of the highbrow type.

For a second Mr. Robert stares at the portrait foolish, and then he glances up quick to see if I'm watchin'. As it happens, I am, and blamed if he don't tint up over it!

”Excuse,” says I. ”Only leather case I could find. Besides, I didn't know you had any such souvenirs as this on your desk.”

He chuckles throaty. ”Nor I,” says he. ”That is, I'd almost forgotten.

You see----”

”I see,” says I. ”She's one of the discards, eh?”

Sort of jolts him, that does. ”Eh?” says he. ”A discard? No, no!

I--er--I suppose, if I must confess, Torchy, that I am one of hers.”

”Gwan!” says I. ”You? Look like a discard, don't you? Tush, tus.h.!.+”

The idea of him tryin' to feed that to me! Why, say, I expect there ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert, of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two seasons before she quit.

How he's been able to dodge the net so long has puzzled more than me, and up to date I'd never had a hint that there was such a thing for him as a certain party. So I expect I was gawpin' some curious at the picture.

”Huh!” says I, but more or less to myself.