I smiled ironically.  “And you think you’ve chosen a way to avoid publicity by bringing these”—­I restrained myself with difficulty—­“these gentlemen here?  Don’t you know that every paper in New York will have a man here writing the thing up?”

“No, they won’t.  They can’t get in.  I stopped at the Lodge as I came by and gave my orders.”

“But they’ll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same.”

Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose.

“No, they won’t, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he isn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you see, I’m Jim Robinson and you are Jerry Benham.”

“I!” I gasped.

“Precisely.  You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art—­Maecenas, friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you’ve invited to Horsham Manor to complete his training.”

“Preposterous!  These—­these bruisers” (I let go now) “think I’m you?”

“No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and king of good fellows.  Flynn knows the truth, of course, but he’s shut as tight as a clam.  He won’t talk, for his own interests are involved.”

“You expect me to play the part of good fellow,” I broke out when I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of his information.  “You expect me to entertain this motley aggregation of assorted criminals as Jerry Benham!  Well, I won’t, and that’s flat.”

“Now, Roger, don’t be unreasonable,” he said with a cajoling smile.  “They’re a pretty decent lot, really.  Sagorski—­the big chap with the fuzzy hair, he’s not half bad when you know him; and Carty, the one with the cauliflower ear, his fight comes off inside of a week.  We’re helping him out, too, you see—­good food, clean air—­bully fellow—­a little too finely drawn just now and a bit irritable—­”

“I see.  A bit irritable—­so am I—­”

“And then,” he went on, “the other big fellow is Tim O’Halloran, my chopping block, has a nasty left—­and is a demon for punishment.  The little fellow is Kid Spatola, an Italian, one of my handlers, the bootblack champion.  Oh, they’re a fine lot, Roger—­You’ll get to like ’em.  Nothing like being thrown with chaps a lot to know what they’re like—­inside of ’em, I mean.”

“Quite true,” I remarked with desperate calmness.  “And who, if I may ask, is the colored gentleman in the yellow sweater?”

“Oh!” said Jerry pleasantly.  “That’s Danny Monroe, my rubber.  He’s the best masseur outside of Sweden, knows all the tricks; wait until you see him rubbing me down.”

“I shall try to possess my soul in patience until then,” I said.  “Have you designated which of the spare rooms these gentlemen are to occupy?”

“Ah, don’t be stodgy, Roger,” he said.  “They’ll all be in the wing.  They won’t bother you.  I’m counting on you to help.  Just try, won’t you?  It will only be for about three weeks.”