all she had gained so hard for him, so she made him come back to America and settle down.  He did.  He made a great name for himself before he was twenty-five as a portrait painter and he and his mother lived so happily together.  She didn’t need any more lovers then.  Alan was all she needed.  And then she died, and he went nearly crazy with grief, went all to pieces, every way.  I suppose that part of his career is what makes you say he isn’t fit for me to flirt with.”

Dick nodded miserably.

“It isn’t very pleasant for me to think of, either,” admitted Tony.  “I don’t like it any better than you do.  But he isn’t like that any more.  When old John Massey died without leaving any will Alan got all the money, because his cousin John and his stuck-up wife had died, too, and there was nobody else.  Alan pulled up stakes and traveled all over the world, was gone two years and, when he came back, he wasn’t dissipated any more.  I don’t say he is a saint now.  He isn’t, I know.  But he got absolutely out of the pit he was in after his mother’s death.”

“Lucky for him they never found the baby John Massey, who was stolen,” Dick remarked.  “He would have been the heir if he could have appeared to claim the money instead of Alan Massey, who was only a grand nephew.”

Tony stared.

“There wasn’t any baby,” she exclaimed.

“Oh yes, there was.  John Massey, Junior, had a son John who was kidnapped when he was asleep in the park and deserted by his nurse who had gone to flirt with a policeman.  There was a great fuss made about it at the time.  The Masseys offered fabulous sums of money for the return of the child, but he never turned up.  I had to dig up the story a few years ago when old John died, which is why I know so much about it.”

“I don’t believe Alan knew about the baby.  He didn’t tell me anything about it.”

“I’ll wager he knew, all right.  It would be mighty unpleasant for him if the other Massey turned up now.”

“Dick, I believe you would be glad if Alan lost the money,” reproached Tony.

“Why no, Tony.  It’s nothing to me, but I’ve always been sorry for that other Massey kid, though he doesn’t know what he missed and is probably a jail-bird or a janitor by this time, not knowing he is heir to one of the biggest properties in America.”

“Sorry to disturb your theories, Mr.—­er Carson,” remarked Alan Massey, suddenly appearing on the scene.  “My cousin John happens to be neither a jail-bird nor a janitor, but merely comfortably dead.  Lucky John!”

“But Dick said he wasn’t dead—­at least that nobody knew whether he was or not,” objected Tony.

“Unfortunately your friend is in error.  John Massey is entirely dead, I assure you.  And now, if he is quite through with me and my affairs, perhaps Mr. Carson will excuse you.  Come, dear.”

Alan laid a hand on Tony’s arm with a proprietorial air which made Dick writhe far more than his insulting manner to himself had done.  Tony looked quickly from one to the other.  She hated the way Alan was behaving, but she did not want to precipitate a scene and yielded, leaving Dick, with a deprecatory glance, to go with Alan.