“Well?” George demanded anxiously.

“Well?”

“Ain’t you hep yet?” George betrayed some little exasperation in addition to his disappointment.

“Hep?” P. Sybarite iterated wonderingly.

“Hep’s the word,” George affirmed:  “John W. Hep, of the well-known family of that name—­very closely related to the Jeremiah Wises.  Yunno who I mean, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” said P. Sybarite sadly:  “I’m not even distinctly connected with either family.”

“You mean you don’t make me?”

“God forestalled me there,” protested P. Sybarite piously.  “Inscrutable!”

Impatiently brushing aside this incoherent observation, George slapped the folded paper resoundingly in the palm of his hand.

“Then this here don’t mean nothin’ to you?”

“To me—­nothing, as you say.”

“You ain’t dropped to the resemblance between Molly Lessing and Marian Blessington?”

“Between Miss Lessing and that portrait?” asked P. Sybarite scornfully.

“Why, they’re dead ringers for each other.  Any one what can’t see that’s blind.”

“But I’m not blind.”

“Well, then you gotta admit they look alike as twins—­”

“But I’ve known twins who didn’t look alike,” said P.S.

“Ah, nix on the stallin’!” George insisted, on the verge of losing his temper.  “Molly Lessing’s the spit-’n’-image of Marian Blessington—­and you know it.  What’s more—­look at their names? Molly for Mary—­you make that? Mary and Marian’s near enough alike, ain’t they?  And what’s Lessing but Blessington docked goin’ and comin’?”

“Wait a second.  If I understand you, George, you’re trying to imply that Miss Lessing is identical with Marian Blessington.”

“You said somethin’ then, all right.”

“Simply because of the similarity of two syllables in their surnames and a fancied resemblance of Miss Lessing to this so-called portrait?”

“Now you’re gettin’ warm, P.S.”

P.S. laughed quietly:  “George, I’ve been doing you a grave injustice.  I apologise.”

George opened his eyes and emitted a resentful “Huh?”

“For years I’ve believed you were merely stupid,” P.S. explained patiently.  “Now you develop a famous, if fatuous, gift of imagination.  I’m sorry.  I apologise twice.”

“Imag’nation hell!” Mr. Bross exploded.  “Where’s your own?  It’s plain’s daylight what I say is so.  When did Miss Lessing come here?  Five weeks ago, to a day—­March foist, or close onto it—­just when the Joinal says she did her disappearin’ stunt.  How you goin’ to get around that?”

“You forget that the Journal simply reports a rumour.  It doesn’t claim it’s true.  In fact, the story is contradicted by the very person that ought to know—­Miss Blessington’s guardian.”

“Well, if she sailed for Europe on the Mauretania, like he says—­how’s it come her name wasn’t on the passenger list?”