“Ah, go bull the market with it, and don’t ask fool questions!” says I.

Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie’s bouillabaisse function on today’s society page, double-column half-tone cut and all.  I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins.

“Were you there, young man?” says he, eyin’ me suspicious.

“Yep!” says I.

“I thought so,” says he, “when Cousin Inez came home and began packing her trunks.  I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet is all off??’

“Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.,” says I.  “Your two tenspots went with it.”

“Huh!” he snorts.  “That’s as far as I care to inquire.  Some day I’m going to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck the administration.”

CHAPTER XVII

TORCHY GETS A THROUGH WIRE

First off, when I pipes the party in the pale green lid and the fuzzy English topcoat, I thought it was some stray from the House of Lords; but as it drifts nearer to the brass rail and I gets a glimpse of the mild blue eyes behind the thick, shell-rimmed glasses, I discovers that it’s only Son-in-law Ferdy; you know, hubby to Marjorie Ellins that was.

“Wat ho!” says I.  “Just in from Lunnon?”

“Why, no,” says Ferdy, gawpin’ foolish.  “Whatever made you think that?”

“Then it’s a disguise, is it?” says I, eyin’ the costume critical.

“Oh, bother!” says Ferdy peevish.  “I told Marjorie I should be stared at.  And I just despise being conspicuous, you know!  Where’s Robert?”

“Mr. Robert ain’t due back for an hour yet,” says I.  “You could catch him at the club, I expect.”

“No, no,” protests Ferdy hasty.  “I—­I wouldn’t go to the club looking like this.  I—­I couldn’t stand the chaff I’d get from the fellows.  I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself,” says I, towin’ him into Mr. Robert’s private office.  “You can shed the heather wrap in here, if you like.”

“I—­I wish I could,” says he.

“Wha-a-at!” says I.  “She ain’t sewed you into it, has she?  Anyhow, you don’t have to keep it buttoned tight under your chin with all this steam heat on.”

“I know,” says Ferdy, sighin’.  “I nearly roasted, coming down in the train.  But, you see, it—­it hides the tie.”

“Eh?” says I.  “Something else Marjorie picked out?  Let’s have a peek.”

Ferdy blushes painful.  “It’s awful,” he groans, “perfectly awful!”

“Not one of these nutty Futurist designs, like a scrambled rainbow shot full of pink polliwogs?” says I.

“Worse than that,” says Ferdy, unbuttonin’ the overcoat reluctant.  “Look!”

“Zowie!  A plush one!” says I.

Course, they ain’t so new.  I’d seen ’em in the zippy haberdashers’ windows early in the fall; but I don’t remember havin’ met one out of captivity before.  And this is about the plushiest affair you could imagine; bright orange and black, and half an inch thick.