“He doesn’t,” says Whity.  “Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hidden mystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn.  Cheese factories!  Half a dozen or more of ’em, up Schoharie way.  Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; a coarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-gallon can, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his own boxes.  He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factories working night shifts.  Virgie draws his share quarterly.  He tried a year or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter.  While there he exposed himself to the sculptor’s art; but it didn’t take very hard.  However, Virgie came back and acquired the studio habit.  And you can’t live for long in a studio, you know, without getting the itch to see yourself in print.  That’s what brought Virgie to me.  And now!  Well, now I have to go to Virgie.”

“Ain’t as chummy with him as you was, I take it?” says I.

Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted.  “The saphead!” says he.  “Just because we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet.  I haven’t seen him for a year.  I wonder how he’ll take it?  But you mentioned a Cousin Inez, didn’t you?”

I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin’ no more names, but suggestin’ that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow’s mite if there wa’n’t any sudden interference.

“Ha!” says Whity, speakin’ tragic through his teeth.  “An idea!  He’s put the spell on a rich widow, has he?  Now if I could only manage to queer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration of pride that I see coming my way tonight.  Describe the fair one.”

“I could point her out if you could smuggle me in,” I suggests.

“A cinch!” says he.  “You’re Barry of the City Press.  Here, stick some copy paper in your pocket.  Take a few notes, that’s all.”

“It’s a fierce disguise to put on,” says I; “but I guess I can stand it for an evenin’.”

So about eight-thirty we meets again, and’ proceeds to hunt up this studio buildin’ over in the East 30’s.  It ain’t any bum Bohemian ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees on each side of the front door.  Virgie’s is a top floor suite, with a boy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things.

“Gee!” I whispers to Whity as we pushes in.  “There’s some swell mob collectin’, eh?”

Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he can do is mumble husky, “Teddy Van Alstyne!  Mrs. Cromer Paige!  The Bertie Gardiners!”

They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin’ around at each other curious, groupin’ into little knots, and chattin’ under their breath.  Bein’ gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and waits to see what happens.

“There comes Cousin Inez!” says I, nudgin’ Whity.  “See?  The squatty dame with the pearl ropes over her hair.”