"It seemed so absurdly simple at first too," says J. Bayard Steele, tappin' one of his pearl-gray spats with his walkin' stick. "But now—well, the more I see of this Gerald Webb, the less I understand."

"Then you're comin' on," says I. "In time you'll get wise to the fact that everybody's that way,—no two alike and every last one of us neither all this nor all that, but constructed complicated, with a surprise package done up in each one."

"Ah! Some of your homespun philosophy, eh?" says J. Bayard. "Interesting perhaps, but inaccurate—quite! The fellow is not at all difficult to read: it's what we ought to do for him that is puzzling."

Which gives you a line, I expect, on this little debate of ours. Yep! Gerald is No. 8 on Pyramid Gordon's list. He'd been a private secretary for Mr. Gordon at one time or another; but he'd been handed his passports kind of abrupt one mornin', and had been set adrift in a cold world without warnin'.

"In fact," goes on Steele, "I am told that Gordon actually kicked him out of his office; in rather a public manner too."

"Huh!" says I. "I expect he deserved it, then."

"Not at all," says Steele. "I've looked that point up. It was over a letter which Gordon himself had dictated to Webb not forty-eight hours before; you know, one of his hot-headed, arrogant, go-to-blazes retorts, during the thick of a fight. But this happened to be in reply to an ultimatum from the Reamur-Brooks Syndicate, and by next morning he'd discovered that he was in no position to talk that way to them. Well, as you know, Pyramid Gordon wasn't the man to eat his own words."

"No," says I, "that wa'n't his fav'rite diet. So he made Gerald the goat, eh?"

"Precisely!" says Steele. "Called him in before the indignant delegation, headed by old Reamur himself, and demanded of poor Webb what he meant by sending out such a letter. The youngster was so flustered that he could only stammer a confused denial. He started sniveling. Then Gordon collared him and booted him into the corridor. That should have closed the incident, but a few moments later back comes Webb, blubbering like a whipped schoolboy, and perfectly wild with rage. He was armed with a mop that he'd snatched from an astonished scrubwoman, and he stormed in whimpering that he was going to kill Gordon. Absurd, of course. A mop isn't a deadly weapon. Some of the clerks promptly rushed in and held Webb until an officer could be called. Then Pyramid laughed it off and refused to prosecute. But the story got into the papers, you may remember; and while more or less fun was poked at Gordon, young Webb came in for a good share. And naturally his career as a private secretary ended right there."

"Yes," says I. "If I was takin' on a secretary myself, I wouldn't pick one that was subject to fits of mop wieldin'. What happened to him after that? How low did he fall?"

J. Bayard tosses over a fancy business card printed in three colors and carryin' this inscription in old English letterin':

AT THE SIGN OF THE BRASS CANDLESTICK
Tea Room and Gift Shop
Mr. Gerald Webb, Manager.

"Oh, well," says I, "that ain't so bad. Must have run across a backer somewhere."

"His sisters," says Steele. "He has five, and some of the four married ones are quite well to do. Then there is Evelyn, the old maid sister, who went in with him. It's from her I've found out so much about Gerald. Nice, refined, pleasant old maid; although somewhat plain featured. She tells me they have a shop at some seashore resort in summer,—Atlantic City, or the Pier,—and occasionally have quite a successful season. Then in the fall they open up again here. The last two summers, though, they've barely made expenses, and she fears that Gerald is becoming discouraged."

"Well, what you beefin' about?" says I. "There's your chance, ain't it? Jump in and cheer him up. Go round every day and drink yourself full of tea. Lug along your friends—anything. Got the whole Gordon estate back of you, you know. And it's plain Pyramid had in mind squarin' accounts for that raw deal he handed Gerald years back, or he wouldn't have named him in the will. And if your dope is right, I judge there ought to be something nice comin' to him."

"Of course, of course," says Steele. "But you see, McCabe, as an expert in altruism, I have reached the point where I no longer act hastily on crude conclusions. Possibly you will fail to understand, but now I take a certain pride in doing just the right thing in exactly the right way."

"I knew you was developin' into some variety of nut," says I. "So that's it, eh? Well, go on."

J. Bayard smiles indulgent and shrugs his shoulders. "For instance," says he, "this Gerald Webb seems to be one of those highly sensitive, delicately organized persons; somewhat effeminate in fact. He needs considerate, judicious handling."

"Then why not present him with an inlaid dressin' table and a set of eyebrow pencils?" I suggest.

Steele brushes that little persiflage aside too. "He's no doubt an idealist of some sort," says he, "a man with high hopes, ambitions. If I only knew what they were——"

"Ain't tried askin' him, have you?" says I.

"Certainly not!" says J. Bayard. "Those are things which such persons can rarely be induced to talk about. I've been studying him at close range, however, by dropping in now and then for a cup of tea and incidentally a chat with his sister; but to no effect. I can't seem to make him out. And I was wondering, Shorty, if you, in your rough and ready way——"

"P.O.F.!" I breaks in.

"What?" says Steele.

"Please omit floral tributes," says I. "You was wonderin' if I couldn't what—size him up for you?"

"Just that," says J. Bayard. "While your methods are not always of the subtlest, I must concede that at times your—er—native intuition——"

"Top floor—all out!" I breaks in. "You mean I can do a quick frame-up without feelin' the party's bumps or consultin' the cards? Maybe I can. But I ain't strong for moochin' around these oolong joints among the draped tunics and vanity boxes."

He's a persistent party, though, J. Bayard is, and after he's guaranteed that we won't run into any mob of shoppers this late in the day, and urged me real hard, I consents to trail along with him and pass on Gerald.

One of the usual teashop joints, the Brass Candlestick is, tucked away in a dwelling house basement on a side street about half a block east of Fifth avenue, with a freaky sign over the door and a pair of moultin' bay trees at the entrance. Inside we finds a collection of little white tables with chairs to match, a showcase full of arty jew'lry, and some shelves loaded with a job lot of odd-shaped vases and jugs and teapots and such truck.

A tall, loppy female with mustard-colored hair and haughty manners tows us to a place in a dark corner and shoves a menu at us. You know the tearoom brand of waitress maybe, and how distant they can be? But this one fairly sneers at us as she takes our order; although I kind of shrivels up in the chair and acts as humble as I know how.

"That ain't Sister Evelyn, is it?" says I, as she disappears towards the back.

"No, no," says Steele. "Miss Webb is at the little cashier's desk, by the door. And that is Webb, behind the counter, talking to those ladies."

"Oh!" says I. "Him with the pale hair and the narrow mouth? Huh! He is Lizzie-like, ain't he?"

He's a slim, thin-blooded, sharp-faced gent, well along in the thirties, I should judge, with gray showin' in his forelock, and a dear little mustache pointed at the ends; the sort of chappy who wears a braid-bound cutaway and a wrist watch, you know. He's temptin' his customers with silver-set turquoise necklaces, and abalone cuff links, and moonstone sets, and such; doin' it dainty and airy, and incidentally displayin' a job of manicurin' that's the last word in fingernail decoration. Such smooth, highbrow conversation goes with it too!

"Oh, yes, Madam," I overhears him gurgle. "Quite so, I assuah you. We import these direct from Cairo; genuine scarabs, taken from ancient mummy cases. No, not Rameses; these are of the Thetos period. Rather rare, you know. And here is an odd trifle, if you will permit me. Oh, no trouble at all. Really! When we find persons of such discriminating taste as you undoubtedly have we——"

"Say," I remarks low to Steele, "he's some swell kidder, ain't he? He'll be chuckin' her under the chin next. What a sweet thing he is! It's a shame to waste all that on a side street too. He ought to be farther up in the shoppin' district and on the avenue."

"Do you think so?" says J. Bayard. "I've been considering that—setting him up in first-class style on a big scale. But of course I should like to be sure that is what he wants most."

"That's my best guess," says I. "I'll bet he'd eat it up. Spring it on him and see."

"Perhaps I will when he's through," says J. Bayard. "There! They're going now."

He was wrong: they was only startin' to go. They had to come back twice and look at something all over again, after which Gerald follows 'em to the door and holds it open for 'em while they exchange a few last words. So it's ten minutes or more before Steele has a chance to call him over, get him planted in the extra chair, and begin breakin' the news to him about Pyramid's batty will.

And even after all them years Webb flushes pink in the ears at the mention of the name. "Oh, yes, Gordon," says he. "I—I did hold a position at one time in his office. Misunderstanding? Not at all. He treated me shamefully. Rank injustice, it was! He—he was by no means a gentleman, by no means!"

"I hear you tried to assassinate him with a mop," says I.

"I—I was not quite myself," says Gerald, colorin' still more. "You see, he put me in such a false position before those Chicago men; and when I tried to tell them the truth he—well, he acted brutally. I ask you, Mr. McCabe, what would you have done?"

"Me?" says I. "I expect I'd slapped him rough on the wrist, or something like that. But you know he was always a little quick about such things, and when it was all over he was gen'rally sorry—if he had time. You see he remembered your case. Now the idea is, how can that little affair of yours be squared?"

"It may have been a little affair to him," says Gerald, poutin' a bit sulky; "but it wasn't so to me. It—it changed my whole life—utterly!"

"Of course," puts in J. Bayard soothin'. "We understand that, Mr. Webb."

"But you've come out all right; you struck something just as good, or better, eh?" and I waves round at the teashop. "Course, you ain't catchin' the business here you might if you was located better. And I expect you feel like you was wastin' your talents on a place this size. But with a whole second floor near some of the big Fifth avenue department stores, where you could soak 'em half a dollar for a club sandwich and a quarter for a cup of tea,—a flossy, big joint with a hundred tables, real French waiters from Staten Island, and a genuine Hungarian orchestra, imported from East 176th street, where you could handle a line of Mexican drawnwork, and Navajo blankets, and Russian samovars, and——"

"No, no!" breaks in Gerald peevish. "Stop!"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him.

"If you are proposing all that as a—a recompense for being publicly humiliated," says he, "and having my career entirely spoiled—well, you just needn't, that's all. I do not care for anything of the kind."

I gasps. Then I gazes foolish over at J. Bayard to see if he has anything to offer. He just scowls at me and shakes his head, as much as to say:

"There, you see! You've messed things all up."

"All right, Mr. Webb," says I. "Then you name it."

"Do you mean," says he, "that Mr. Gordon intended to leave me something in his will; that he—er—considered I was entitled to some—ah——"

"That's the idea, more or less," says I. "Only Mr. Steele here, he's been tryin' to dope out what would suit you best."

"Could—could it be in the form of a—a cash sum?" asks Gerald.

I sighs relieved and looks inquirin' at Steele. He nods, and I nods back.

"Sure thing," says I.

"How much?" demands Webb.

"Time out," says I, "until Mr. Steele and I can get together."

So while Gerald is pacin' nervous up and down between the tables we makes figures on the back of the menu. We begins by guessin' what he was gettin' when he was fired, then what salary he might have been pullin' down in five years, at the end of ten, and so on, deductin' some for black times and makin' allowances for hard luck. But inside of five minutes we'd agreed on a lump sum.

"What about twenty thousand?" says I.

Gerald gulps once or twice, turns a little pale, and then asks choky, "Would—would you put that in writing?"

"I can give you a voucher for the whole amount," says Steele.

"Then—then please!" says Gerald, and he stands over J. Bayard, starin' eager, while the paper is bein' made out. He watches us both sign our names.

"This is drawn," says Steele, "on the attorney for the estate, and when you present it he will give you a check for——"

"Thanks," says Gerald, reachin' trembly for the voucher.

For a minute he stands gazin' at it before he stows it away careful in an inside vest pocket. Then all of a sudden he seems to straighten up. He squares his shoulders and stiffens his jaw.

"Evelyn!" he sings out. "Ho, Evelyn!"

It ain't any smooth, ladylike tone he uses, either. A couple of stout female parties, that's been toyin' with lobster Newburg patties and chocolate Éclairs and gooseberry tarts, stops their gossipin' and glares round at him indignant.

"Evelyn, I say!" he goes on, fairly roarin' it out.

At that out comes Sister from behind her little coop lookin' panicky. Also in from the kitchen piles the haughty waitress with the mustard-tinted hair, and a dumpy, frowzy one that I hadn't noticed before. The haughty one glares at Gerald scornful, almost as if he'd been a customer.

"Why—why, Brother dear!" begins Evelyn, still holdin' open the novel she'd been readin'. "What is the matter?"

"I'm through, that's all," he announces crisp.

"You—you are what?" asks his sister.

"Through," says Gerald loud and snappy. "I'm going to quit all this—now, too. I'm going to close up, going out of the business. Understand? So get those women out of here at once."

"But—but, Gerald," gasps Evelyn, "they—you see they are——"

"I don't care whether they've finished or not," says he. "It doesn't matter. They needn't pay. But clear 'em out. Right away!"

She had big dark eyes, Sister Evelyn. She was thinner than Gerald, and a few years older, I should guess. Anyway, her hair showed more gray streaks. She had a soft, easy voice and gentle ways. She didn't faint, or throw any emotional fit. She just looks at Gerald mildly reproachful and remarks:

"Very well, Brother dear," and then glides down the aisle to the two heavy-weight food destroyers.

We couldn't hear just what she told 'em, but it must have been convincin'. They gathers up their wraps and shoppin' bags and sails out, sputterin' peevish.

"Here, Celia!" commands Gerald, turnin' to the waitresses. "You and Bertha pull down those front shades—tight, mind you! Then turn on the dome and side lights—all of 'em."

We sat watchin' the proceedin's, Steele and me, with our mouths open, not knowin' whether to go or stay. Evelyn stands starin' at him too. In a minute, though, he whirls on her.

"You needn't think I've gone crazy, Evelyn," he says. "I was never more sane. But something has happened. I've just had a windfall. You'd never guess. From old Gordon; you remember, the beast who——"

"Yes, I know," says Evelyn. "Mr. Steele has been talking to me about it."

"Has, eh?" says Gerald. "Well, I trust it wasn't you who gave him that idea about keeping me in this fool business for the rest of my life. Ugh! Talking sappy to an endless stream of silly women, palming off on them such useless junk as this! Look at it! Egyptian scarabs, made in Connecticut; Ceylonese coral, from North Attleboro, Mass.; Bohemian glassware, from Sandsburg, Pa.; Indian baskets woven by the Papago tribe, meaning Rutherford, N. J. Bah! For nearly twelve years I've been doing this. And you're to blame for it, you and Irene and Georgianna. You got me into it when I could find nothing else to do, and then somehow I couldn't seem to get out. Lying and smirking and dickering day after day—sickening! But I'm through. And just as a relief to my feelings I'm going to finish off a lot of this rubbish before I go. Watch!"

With that he picks a teapot from our table, balances it careful in one hand, and sends it bang at a shelf full of blue and yellow pitchers.

Crash! Smash! Tinkle-tinkle!

It was a good shot. He got three or four of 'em at one clip.

Next he reaches for the sugar bowl and chucks that. More crash. More tinkle-tinkle. This time it was sort of a side-wipin' blow, and a full half-dozen fancy cream jugs bit the dust.

"Good eye!" says I, chucklin'. Even J. Bayard has to grin.

As for Sister Evelyn, she says never a word, but braces herself against a table and grips her hands together, like she was preparin' to have a tooth out. The dumpy waitress clutches the haughty one around the waist and breathes wheezy.

"Vases!" says Gerald, scowlin' at a shelf. "Silly vases!"

And with that he ups with a chair, swings it over his shoulder, and mows down a whole row of 'em. They goes crashin' onto the floor.

"Muh Gord!" gasps the dumpy tea juggler.

"Clean alley! Set 'em up on the other!" I sings out.

But Gerald is too busy to notice side remarks. His thin face is flushed and his eyes sparkle. Peelin' off the cutaway, he tosses it careless on a table.

"Look out for splinters!" says he as he heaves a chair into the showcase among the fake jew'lry, and with another proceeds to make vicious swipes at whatever's left on the shelves.

As a tearoom wrecker he was some artist, believe me! Not a blessed thing that could be smashed did he miss, and what he couldn't break he bent or dented.

"Ain't he just grand!" observes Celia to her dumpy friend. "My! I didn't think it was in him."

It was, though. A village fire department couldn't have done a neater job, or been more thorough. He even tosses down a lot of work baskets and jumps on 'em and kicks 'em about.

"There!" says he, after a lively session, when the place looks like it had been through a German siege. "Now it's all genuine junk, I guess."

Sister Evelyn gazes at him placid. "No doubt about that," she remarks. "And I hope you feel better, Brother dear. Perhaps you will tell me, though, what is to become of me now."

"I am going to leave some money for you," says he. "If you're silly enough, you can buy a lot more of this stuff and keep on. If you have any sense, you'll quit and go live with Irene."

"And you, Gerald?" asks Evelyn.

"I'm off," says he. "I'm going to do some real work, man's work. You saw that dark-looking chap who was in here a few days ago? That was Bentley, who used to be bank messenger in old Gordon's office. He was discharged without cause too. But he had no five sisters to make a sappy tearoom manager out of him. He went to the Argentine. Owns a big cattle ranch down there. Wants me to go in with him and buy the adjoining ranch. He sails day after to-morrow. I'm going with him, to live a wild, rough life; and the wilder and rougher it is the better I shall like it."

"Oh!" says Sister Evelyn, liftin' her eyebrows sarcastic. "Will you?"

Well, that's just what J. Bayard and I have been askin' each other ever since. Anyway, he's gone. Showed up here in the studio the last thing, wearin' a wide-brimmed felt hat with a leather band—and if that don't signify somethin' wild and rough, I don't know what does.

"Rather an impetuous nature, Gerald's," observes Steele. "I hope it doesn't get him into trouble down there."

"Who knows?" says I. "Next thing we may be hearin' how he's tried to stab some Spaniard with a whisk broom."