“Including Phil Stacey?”

“Of course,” retorted the Bonnie Lassie.  “It was he who came to me for help.  I’m really doing this for him.”

“I thought you were doing it for Barbran.”

“Oh; she’s just a transposed Washington Squarer,” answered the tyrant of Our Square.  “Though she’s a dear kiddie, too, underneath the nonsense.”

“Do I understand—­”

“I don’t see,” interrupted the Bonnie Lassie sweetly, “how you could.  I haven’t told you.  And the rest are bound to secrecy.  But don’t be unduly alarmed at anything queer you may see in Our Square within the next few days.”

Only by virtue of that warning was I able to command the emotions aroused by an encounter with Cyrus the Gaunt some evenings later.  He was hurrying across the park space in the furtive manner of one going to a shameful rendezvous, and upon my hailing him he at first essayed to sheer off.  When he saw who it was he came up with a rather swaggering and nonchalant effect.  I may observe here that nobody has a monopoly of nonchalance in this world.

“Good-evening, Cyrus,” I said.

“Good-evening, Dominie.”

“Beautiful weather we’re having.”

“Couldn’t be finer.”

“Do you think it will hold?”

“The paper says rain to-morrow.”

“Why is the tip of your nose painted green?”

“Is it green?” inquired Cyrus, as if he hadn’t given the matter any special consideration, but thought it quite possible.

“Emerald,” said I.  “It looks as if it were mortifying.”

“It would be mortifying,” admitted Cyrus the Gaunt, “if it weren’t in a good cause.”

“What cause?” I asked.

“Come out of there!” said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a figure lurking in the shrubbery.

The Little Red Doctor emerged.  I took one look at his most distinctive feature.

“You, too!” I said.  “What do you mean by it?”

“Ask Cyrus,” returned the Little Red Doctor glumly.

“It’s a cult,” said Cyrus.  “The credit of the notion belongs not to me, but to my esteemed better half.  A few chosen souls—­”

“Here comes another of them,” I conjectured, as a bowed form approached.  “Who is it?  MacLachan!”

The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold.  His handkerchief was pressed to his face.

“Take it down, Mac,” I ordered.  “It’s useless.”  He did so, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.

“He bullied me into it,” declared the tailor, glowering at Cyrus the Gaunt.

“It’ll do your nose good,” declared Cyrus jauntily.  “Give it a change.  Complementary colors, you know.  What ho!  Our leader.”

Phil Stacey appeared.  He appeared serious; that is, as serious as one can appear when his central feature glows like the starboard light of an incoming steamship.  Following him were Leon Coventry, huge and shy, and the lethal Boggs looking unhappy.