First place, Swifty Joe should have let the subject drop. Anyway, he needn't have come paradin' into the front office in his gym suit to show me his nutty theory of how Young Disko landed that knockout on the Australian in the breakaway.

"Turn over!" says I. "You're on your back! He couldn't have done anything of the kind."

"Couldn't, eh?" growls Swifty. "Ahr-r-r-r chee! Couldn't give him the shoulder on the jaw! Ain't I seen it done? Say, lemme show you——"

"Show nothing!" says I. "I'm tellin' you it was a right hook the kid put him out with, from chancery. Now see!"

With that I sheds my coat, gets Swifty's neck in the crook of my left elbow, swings him round for a side hip-lock, and bends his head forward.

"Now, you South Brooklyn kike," I goes on, maybe more realistic than I meant, "I got you right, ain't I? And all I got to do is push in a half-arm jolt like this, and——"

Well, then I looks up. Neither of us has noticed her come in, hadn't even heard the knob turn; but standin' there in the middle of the room and starin' straight at us is a perfectly good female lady.

That don't half tell it, either. She's all lady, from the tips of her double-A pumps to the little gray wing peekin' over the top of her dingy gray bonnet. One of these slim, dainty, graceful built parties, with white, lacy stuff at her wrists and throat, and the rest of her costume all gray: not the puckered-waist, half-masted skirt effects all the women are wearin' now. I can't say what year's model it was, or how far back; but it's a style that seems just fitted to her: maybe one that she's invented herself. Around thirty-five, I should judge she was, from the little streak of gray runnin' through her front hair.

What got me, though, was the calm, remote, superior look that she's givin' us. She don't seem nervous or panicky at all, like most women would, breakin' in on a roughhouse scene like that. She don't even stare reprovin', but stands there watchin' us as serene as if we wa'n't anything more'n pictures on a movie sheet. And there we was, holdin' the pose; me with my right all bunched for action, and Swifty with his face to the mat. Seemed minutes we was clinched there, and everything so still you could hear Swifty's heavy breathin' all over the room.

Course I was waitin' for some remarks from her. You'd most think they was due, wouldn't you? It's my private office, remember, and she's sort of crashed in unannounced. If any explainin' was done, it was up to her to start it. And waitin' for what don't come is apt to get on your nerves.

"Eh?" I throws over my shoulder at her.

Her straight eyebrows kind of humps in the middle—that's all.

"Did you say anything?" I goes on.

"No," says she. If she'd smiled sort of faint, or even glared stern at us, it wouldn't have been so bad. But she just presses her lips together—thin, narrow-gage lips, they was—and goes on givin' us that distant, unconcerned look.

Meanwhile Swifty, with his face bent towards the floor, ain't gettin' any view at all, and is only guessin' what's happenin'. He squirms impatient.

"Say, Shorty," he grumbles, "I got a few bones in me neck, remember. Break, can't you?"

And as I loosens my hold he straightens up, only to get the full benefit of that placid, ladylike lookover.

"Ahr-r-r chee!" says he, glancin' disgusted at me. Then he starts gettin' rosy in the ears, like he always does when there's fluffs around, and after one more hasty look he bolts back into the gym.

The strange lady watches this move like she has everything else, only she shrugs her shoulders a bit. What she meant by that I couldn't make out. I was gettin' to the point where I didn't care so much, either.

"Well, Ma'am?" says I.

"Poor fellow!" says she. "I am glad he escaped that brutal blow."

"Are you?" says I. "Well, don't waste too much sympathy on him; for I was only demonstratin' how——"

"You might offer me a chair," she breaks in sort of casual.

"Why—er—sure!" says I, and before I knew it I was jumpin' to drag one up.

She settles into it without even a nod of thanks.

"You see," I goes on, "he's my assistant, and I was tryin' to show him how——"

"It's rather stuffy here," observes the lady. "Couldn't you open a window?"

It's more an order than anything else; but I hops over and shoves the sash wide open.

"That's too much," says she. "It causes a draft."

So I shuts it halfway. Then I gets her a glass of water. "Anything else you'd like?" says I, tryin' to be sarcastic. "The mornin' paper, or——"

"Where is Mr. Steele?" she demands.

"Oh!" says I, gettin' a little light on the mystery. "J. Bayard, you mean?"

"Of course," says she. "He was not at his hotel, and as this was the other address I was given I expected to find him here."

"Huh!" says I. "Gave you this number, did he? Well, you see, this is my Physical Culture Studio, and while he's apt to be here off and on, it ain't his——"

"Just such a place as I might have anticipated finding Bayard in," says she, glancin' around the front office at the portraits in ring costume and so on. "Quite!"

"Let's see," says I, "you are—er——"

"I am Mrs. Lee Hollister," says she, "of Richmond, Virginyah."

"I might have suspicioned that last," says I, "by the way you——"

But she don't give me a show to register any little slam I might have thought of puttin' over. She's the kind that conducts a conversation accordin' to her own rules, and she never hesitates to cut in.

"I want to know what there is about this will of Mr. Gordon's," she demands. "Some absurd legacy, I presume; at least, my solicitor, Colonel Henderson, seemed to think so. I suppose you've heard of Colonel Britt Henderson?"

"Not a whisper," says I, as defiant as I know how.

She expresses her opinion of such ignorance with a little lift of her pointed chin. "Colonel Henderson," she goes on, "is perhaps the ablest and most brilliant attorney in Virginyah. He is connected with the best families in the State."

"Never heard of anybody from down there that wa'n't," says I. "And while I ain't disputin' him, mind you, his guess about this bein' a legacy is——"

"Will Mr. Steele be in soon?" she asks crisp.

"Might," says I, "and then again he mightn't."

"It's rather rude of him to keep me waiting," says she.

"Maybe if you'd sent word ahead," I suggests, "he'd been on hand. But now you've come all this way——"

"You don't suppose," breaks in Mrs. Hollister, "that I came north just for that? Not at all. It was to select a design for the memorial window I am having placed in our church, in memory of poor, dear Professor Hollister. My late husband, you know; and a most noble, talented, courtly gentleman he was too."

"Ye-e-es'm," says I.

"What are those objects on the wall?" says she, shiftin' sudden.

"Boxin' gloves, Ma'am," says I. "That's the pair of mitts that won me the championship, back in——"

"Has Mr. Steele become a pugilist, too?" she asks.

"Not so you'd notice it," says I.

"Hm-m-m-m!" says she, tappin' the toe of one of her pumps and gazin' around critical.

Not that she takes any notice of me. Honest, if I'd been a yellow pup tied in the corner, she couldn't have been more offhand. I was gettin' warm in the neck by the minute too, and in three more shakes I'd been cuttin' loose with the acid remarks, when the door opens and in blows J. Bayard Steele. I sighs relieved when I sees him too.

"Oh!" says he, gettin' a back view of her. "I beg pardon. I—er——" Then she turns and faces him. "Alice!" he gasps.

"My dear Bayard!" she protests. "Please let's not have any scene. It was all so long ago, and I'm sure you must have gotten over that."

"But how—why—er——" he goes on.

"You wrote to Mrs. Lee Hollister, didn't you?" she demands. "I am Mrs. Hollister."

Another gasp from Steele. "You?" says he. "Then you—you——"

"To be sure I married," says she. "And Professor Hollister was one of the truest, noblest Southern gentlemen who ever lived. I have mourned his loss for nearly ten years, and—— But don't stand there twiddling your hat in that absurd fashion! You may sit, if you like. Get Mr. Steele a chair, will you?"

I'd jumped and done it too, before I had time to think.

"Now what is this about Mr. Gordon's will?" says she.

Well, between us, whenever she'd let us get in a word, we managed to sketch out the idea.

"You see," says Steele, "Pyramid Gordon wished to make what reparation he could for any injustice he might have done during the course of his business career. He left a list of names, among them being this, 'the widow of Professor Lee Hollister.' Now possibly Gordon, in some way——"

"He did," breaks in Mrs. Hollister. "My husband had issued an elaborate and exhaustive geological report on a certain district. It had attracted wide attention. He was to have been appointed State Geologist, when suddenly this Mr. Gordon appeared and began his unwarranted campaign of abuse and opposition. Something about some coal and iron deposits, I believe it was, on land which he was trying to sell to an English syndicate. Professor Hollister's report failed to mention any such deposits. As a matter of fact they did not exist. But Mr. Gordon summoned experts of his own, who attacked my husband's statements. The professor declined to enter into a public controversy. His dignity would not permit him. Underhanded influence was brought to bear on the Governor, and the appointment was given to another. But time has shown. Discredited and beaten though he seemed to be, my husband was right. The Gordon lands proved valueless. Those in which Professor Hollister invested his savings were rich in minerals."

"Ah!" says Steele. "Quite like Pyramid. And it has been left to us, Mrs. Hollister, to recompense, if we may, the bitterness of that——"

"Please!" says the lady. "Professor Hollister was not an embittered man. Such methods were beneath his contempt. He merely withdrew from public life. As for recompense—surely you would not think of asking me to accept it from such a source! Never! Besides, I have more than enough. Several years ago I disposed of our mineral holdings, bought back the old Hollister mansion, and I am now living there in as much comfort as poor Lee could have wished me to enjoy. What could Gordon's money add to that?"

If I'd been J. Bayard, hanged if I wouldn't called it quits right there! But he's gettin' so chesty over this job of sunshine distributer that there's no holdin' him in.

"Surely, Alice," he insists, "there must be some way in which I, as—er—an old friend, might——"

Mrs. Hollister cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "You don't understand," says she. "I am no longer the vain, frivolous young girl whom you knew that winter in Chicago. My first season, that was. I was being lavishly entertained. I suppose I became dazzled by it all,—the attention, the new scenes, the many men I met. I've no doubt I behaved very silly. But now—well, I have realized all my social ambitions. Now I am devoting my life to the memory of my sainted husband, to charity, to our dear church."

I gawps curious over at J. Bayard to see what comeback he has to this dose of mush, and finds him starin' foolish at her.

"There is only one thing——" she begins.

"Yes?" says Steele, kind of faint. "Something in which we might——"

"I am interested in a group of girls," says she, "factory girls; one of our Guild Mission classes, you know. They have been anxious to have some dances. Now I am strongly opposed to the modern dances, all of them. True, I've seen very little, almost nothing. So I decided that, in order to convince myself that I am right, I might as well, while I am in New York—well—er——"

"I get you," I puts in. "You want to watch the real thing pulled—the fox trot, and the new polkas, and so on. Eh?"

"Not for my own personal amusement," corrects Mrs. Hollister. "I am sure I shall be bored, perhaps shocked; but then I shall be better able to warn my girls."

"The old gag!" says I. "I know what would fit your case,—a late dinner at the Maison Maxixe. Eh, Steele?" and I tips him the knowin' wink.

"Why—er—yes," says J. Bayard. "I presume Mr. McCabe is correct. And I am sure we should be delighted to have Mrs. Hollister as our guest."

"We!" I gasps under my breath. Say, the nerve of him! But before I can think up any previous date the lady has accepted.

"I have heard of the place," says she. "I am quite willing to endure an evening there. I am wondering, though, if I should not be rather conspicuous. You see, I brought with me none but simple gowns such as this, and perhaps the contrast——"

"You'd be about as prominent at the Maxixe in that outfit," says I, "as a one-legged albino at a coon cakewalk. Besides, they don't let you in there unless you're in full evenin'. Course, there's other joints where——"

"No," says she. "Let it be the Maison Maxixe, if that is the worst. And for once too I may as well submit myself to the horrors of the new fashions. I will order a costume to-day, and I can be ready for my plunge into Gotham vanities by—let me see—we will say Saturday night. I am at the Lady Louise. You may call for me there about eight. Good-by. Don't be late, Gentlemen." And with that she does the abrupt flit, leavin' us gawpin' at each other stupid.

"Much obliged, Steele," says I, "for ringin' me in on this nutty reunion of yours. Say, J. B., you got a head like a tack, you have! Have a heart, can't you?"

"My dear Shorty," says he, "permit me to point out that it was you who suggested taking her to——"

"Because you was sittin' there like a gump," says I. "Only helpin' you out, that's all. And I'm goin' to look nice, ain't I, trailin' into a place like that with you and this—say, just where does the lady fit into your past, anyway? Never heard you mention her, did I?"

"Naturally not," says he. "One doesn't boast of having been thrown over."

"Eh?" says I. "You was engaged—to her?"

He nods and gazes sentimental at the ceilin'. "My one genuine romance," says he. "I suppose she wasn't really the radiant beauty I imagined; but she was charming, vivacious, fascinating. It was a bad case of love at first sight. At eleven o'clock that evening, I remember, I took her in to supper. At twelve I was leading her into a palm-sheltered nook, and the next thing I knew I had taken her in my arms and—well, the usual thing. No one could have made a more complete ass of himself. She should have boxed my ears. She didn't. The engagement lasted all of one week."

"Then you recovered from the attack?" says I.

"No," says he. "She had discovered another, several others. She told me quite casually that she really hadn't meant it; and wasn't I, after all, rather a wild young man? I assured her that if I wasn't wild I should be after that. She only shrugged her shoulders. So I gave her up. The others did too. And she went back to Richmond, it seems, and married a sainted geologist; while I—well, I never did get over it, quite. Silly, of course; but when I met other girls later I—I remembered, that's all."

"Which accounts for you bein' a bach so long, does it?" says I. "Well, it's never too late. Here's your chance once more. At the Maison Maxixe you can pull any kind of romance, stale or recent, and nobody'll care a hoot. I'll duck the dinner, and you can——"

"No, no!" protests J. Bayard. "I—er—I wouldn't take her to dinner alone for worlds. Really!" he waves his hands almost tragic.

"Why not?" says I. "Thought you hadn't got over it."

"Oh, but I have," insists Steele, "thoroughly."

"Must have been lately then," says I.

"To-day—just now," says he. "I never dreamed she would develop into—er—a woman like that,—the way she looks at you, you know."

"You don't need to describe it," says I. "That wa'n't a marker to the way she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We'll hand her a jolt Saturday night."

Steele groans. "I wish I could—— By George!" he explodes. "I'd forgotten Major Ben Cutter."

"What about him?" says I.

"An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He's landing Saturday, from Santa Marta. I haven't seen him for years,—been down there running a banana plantation, you know. He cabled up, and I'd promised to take him around that evening, dinner at the club, and——"

"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" says I. "No old-friend alibi goes in this case."

"But, Shorty," he protests, "how can I——"

"You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-cornered affair. The more the merrier."

"He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and after five years in the bush——"

"Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won't mind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind her when she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we're attendin'."

Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for you know how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste in stained glass windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes to flossin' up for the Maison Maxixe—well, no gray-and-white, back-number regalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death.

So about seven-thirty Saturday night I was some chilly in the ankles. I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major. No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky, rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-faced togs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort of took to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's.

"All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow."

Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he puts in, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all, I'd best not——"

"Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell you all about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay as Trinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along."

Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he sees what answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets go of a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard—well, he just stares at her with his mouth open.

For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with any last fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I should call it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'm shortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the last word in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdle and a Martha Washington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist line but gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far as the ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go with it, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug or something. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped around her head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnet that's been through a hard blow.

"Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels, "you see I'm ready."

"Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the front almost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him.

After that, though—say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulge in such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs. Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a word to say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don't let 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such a bad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia—well, I got to admit that she's some ripe pippin. Her big brown eyes is sparklin', she's smilin' coy as she looks the Major up and down, and the next thing we know blamed if she ain't cuddled right up to him and remarked kittenish:

"You dear man! I'm going to let you take me out to the cab."

Well, that was the programme from then on. It was the Major and Mrs. Hollister first, with me and J. Bayard trailin' on behind. We'd had some debate beforehand as to whether this should be a dry dinner or not, endin' by Steele announcin' he was goin' to take a chance on Martinis anyhow. Does she shy at the appetizer? Say, she was clinkin' glasses with the Major before J. Bayard has a chance to reach for his. Same way with the fizz that J. B. has put in a hurry order for.

"Bored to death, ain't she?" I remarks behind my hand.

And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered his conversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time of any couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the side lines.

"Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen, as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had no idea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, the opera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season."

"Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too."

Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on her demitasse, I nudges Steele.

"Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"

Steele takes a hasty glance at 'em. "I—I'm with you," says he.

"What!" says I. "Goin' to hand him over to her?"

He nods. "Well," says I, "I guess that'll pass for a kind deed."

"Also somewhat of a generous one," says he, exhibitin' the footin' of the dinner bill he's just settled for.

I don't think they noticed, either of 'em, when we did our sneak. Once outside, J. Bayard takes a long breath, like he was relieved at havin' shifted something. Then he sort of sighs.

"Poor old Ben!" says he.

"Gwan!" says I. "You never can tell. Maybe he'll like playin' the devoted slave act for the rest of his life. Besides, she's on a new tack. The Major's quite a husk too. I'll bet he don't qualify for any memorial window. Not him!"