Mr. Van Pycke got down in front of the Purdwell mansion. It must be admitted that he almost funked when he opened the door of the cab and let in a gust of wind and snow that almost took his breath away. But he steeled himself and slipped out into the seething blizzard. He blinked around in all directions as the taxicab chortled off into the white whirlwind. So dense was the flying snow that he could scarcely see the houses on the inner side of the pavement; he was nearly a minute in getting his bearings. Then he shuffled off through the great drifts on the walk, pointed toward a fashionable apartment building whose lights glimmered fantastically against the whistling, shifting screen.

It may be added that Mr. Van Pycke was cursing himself for a fool at every wretched step of the way. Never, in all his life, had he seen snowdrifts so deep and never so stubborn. He said to himself that he'd be d—d if he pay a cent of taxes until civic affairs were administered by an assembly that knew enough to keep the sidewalks clear of snow. He also experienced the doleful fear that his nose was freezing in spite of all that he could do to prevent it.

Bosworth's taxicab floundered heroically on for two blocks. Then it gave out and came to a frantic stop, pulsing and throbbing and jerking its very vitals out in the effort to go ahead.

"She's stuck, sir," said the driver, opening the door.

"Where are we?" demanded young Mr. Van Pycke. "Please come inside and close the door. I hate a draft. That's better. Now we can talk it over. Are we lost?"

"Lost, sir? C'tainly not. I know w'ere we are, all right. Only we can't budge out of this snowdrift. It's the woist ever."

"I suppose we'll have to sleep here," said Bosworth, resignedly. He was comfortably sleepy by this time.

The driver struck a match, the better to inspect his amiable fare. "Not if I know myself," he growled. "If you should happen to lose your watch while you're in this condition, I'd be jugged for it. I'll take you to the Lackaday Hotel in the next block below and turn you over to the chambermaids. Come along, pardner. I'll see that you get there all right."

Buzzy sat up and glared at him in the darkness. "Strike another match, confound you," he commanded. "How the devil am I to see your number? Never mind; I sha'n't report your impertinence, after all. I dare say you meant well. I am a bit drunk. But I can get along all right by myself. You say the Lackaday is back there in the next block?"

"Yes, sir. The number you wanted is about three blocks furder up. If it hadn't a been—"

"Let me out. I'll walk back. You—you've taken me past the number I wanted."

"The ticket says 714, sir, plain as day," began the driver. "You didn't say nothin' about the Lackaday—"

"You're quite right, my man. And you didn't say anything about stopping in the middle of the block for the night, did you? Well, there you are! That squares us."

He clambered out into the snowdrift and unbuttoned his overcoat. The man seemed undecided whether to let him go or to drag him back into the vehicle. Bosworth found what he was looking for in his waistcoat pocket. He pressed it into the driver's hand.

"I'm sorry it isn't more," he said regretfully. "It may be a dollar, or it may be a five, but no matter which it is, it ought to be more. Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. If you can't get this thing going by 'leven o'clock, I want you to go up to Martin's and have 'em send a four-horse sleigh to No. 511. It's the first residence north of the Lackaday, and it's the number I've been compelled to select as a last resort. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Martin's livery, sir. I'll attend to everything, sir. Thank you, sir."

He stood there in the blinding snow, watching his fare struggle to the sidewalk. Then he decided to follow along behind him until the "young gent" was safely within the doors of No. 511. He had driven Mr. Van Pycke before and he knew that it was not a dollar bill.

Bosworth reached the steps leading up to the rather imposing doorway at No. 511. There was a heavy, stubborn iron gate at the foot, which he had some difficulty in opening because of the snow. While he was working with it, a man came plump up against him. Together they seized upon the gate and yanked with all their might and main.

"Thanks," said Buzzy, when it was open.

"Don't thank me," snapped the other. "I'm going in myself."

They mounted the six or eight steps to the storm doors, side by side, enveloped in the snow that scuttled around the corner of the big Lackaday hotel next door. With a great stamping of boots they floundered into the shelter of the outer vestibule.

The light in the hall beyond shone through the glass doors, illuminating the box-like coop in which they paused, each selfishly to occupy himself in catching his breath and at the same time shake the snow from his person. In the act of knocking the snow from the tops of their silk hats they glanced up simultaneously, each having arrived at the moment when it was convenient for him to inquire into the identity of his fellow visitor.

They stared hard for a moment.

"Hello, dad! Are you lost?"

Mr. Van Pycke muttered something into the collar of his coat. Fortunately the wind outside was making such a noise that his son did not hear the remark.

"Is that you, Bosworth?" he demanded querulously, almost on the instant.

"Yes, sir,—your long lost son. I—I thought I let you out at Purdwell's?" Bosworth seemed a bit hazy.

Mr. Van Pycke cleared his throat. "I didn't find any one at home." It did not occur to him to ask why Bosworth was there. "So I came up here, unexpectedly, mind you. I thought perhaps the weather being so dreadful, I'd be sure to find Mrs. Scoville at home. No one would think of going out on a night like this."

"Do you suppose the Purdwells went out without thinking?" asked Bosworth, innocently.

"Ring the bell," said Mr. Van Pycke, very sharply.

His son found the button with some difficulty, and gave it a violent and unintentionally prolonged push. In silence they awaited the response of the footman.

"Is your mistress at home, Bellows?" asked Mr. Van Pycke, as the door was opened part way to allow the indignant inspection of one who had certainly expected beggars.

Bellows, smileless and resourceful individual, seemed a bit uncertain, not to say upset. He glanced over his shoulder in a very far from imperious manner, apparently expecting the answer to come from the softly lighted hallway behind him.

"I'll see, Mr. Van Pycke. Will you step inside?"

"Get a broom, Bellows, and brush off some of this snow."

"Yes, sir." The footman appeared a moment later with a whisk broom. "It's a very nawsty night, sir," he informed them jointly as he began scattering the snow in all directions. From tip to toe he whisked the shivering Mr. Van Pycke, and then turned upon his silent companion. The elder slipped into the warm hall, feeling his nose in considerable agitation.

"Bellows, come in here and take my coat. By Gad, I wonder if I am likely to catch pneumonia."

"In a moment, sir."

"You—you think it likely, Bellows? That suddenly?"

Bosworth stepped inside, and Bellows gently closed the door before turning to the distressed Mr. Van Pycke, senior.

"Bellows, is my nose frozen?" demanded that gentleman, in tones faint with dread.

"No, sir. It looks to me to be quite warm, sir."

"Is your mistress engaged, Bellows?" inserted Bosworth, quietly. "If she is, I'll not trouble you to help me off with my coat."

"I—I think she is, sir. I'll see, however."

"Very odd," said Mr. Van Pycke, senior, as the man disappeared down the hall.

"I think there's a dinner going on," said Bosworth, beginning to button up his coat.

"No one would go to a dinner on such a night as this," rasped Mr. Van Pycke, who knew all of the eleventh-hour habits of society. He took up his position over a simmering floor register. "I'm wet to my knees. My feet are like ice. I wish that demmed servant would hurry back here and get me a hot drink of some sort. Ring the bell there, Bosworth. I'm—I'm quite sure I feel something stuffy in my chest. Good God, if it should be pneumonia!" His legs trembled violently.

Bosworth did not ring the bell. He was staring thoughtfully at the floor, and paid no attention to his father's maunderings. The humor of the situation was beginning to sift through his slowly clearing brain.

Bellows returned.

"Mrs. Scoville is at home, and begs the Misters Van Pycke to bear with her for a few minutes. She is at dinner with a few guests. In the drawing-room there are other guests. You will please to make yourselves at home until she leaves the table. The gentlemen are to smoke in the drawing-room to-night."

"A crowd?" muttered Bosworth. Then his eyes lighted up with sudden relief. "Thank the Lord, I won't have to do it."

"Do what?" demanded his father.

Bosworth's wits were keener. "Go out into the storm without something to warm me up," he equivocated.

"Bellows, who is in the drawing-room?" asked Mr. Van Pycke, eying the door with some curiosity. "They're deuced quiet, whoever they are."

Bellows grew very red in the face and resolutely pressed his lips together. He took Mr. Bosworth's overcoat and hat and laid them carefully on the Italian hall seat before venturing to reply.

"You can't hear them for the wind, sir," he said.

"Bellows, I'm catching my death," shivered Mr. Van Pycke. "I feel it coming. Get me something to drink. My God, look at my shoes! They're sopping wet. Bosworth, don't stand there like a clothing store model! I must have dry shoes and stockings. I can't—"

"A clothing store model?" murmured the footman, strangely perturbed.

"I can't run the chance of pneumonia at my age," went on Mr. Van Pycke. "Bellows, do you suppose there's a dry pair of trousers in the house? I'm wet to the knees. I must have shoes. Demmit, Bosworth, do something!"

"My dear father, don't look at me. I'm using my trousers. I dare say Bellows has an extra suit of livery."

"If you wouldn't mind wearing brown trousers with a yellow stripe down the leg, sir," began Bellows.

"Anything," interrupted Mr. Van Pycke, irritably. "But I must also have shoes."

Bellows was thoughtful. "I think, sir, that there is an old pair of riding boots under the stairs, sir. They belonged to poor Mr. Scoville, sir."

"I don't like the idea of wearing other men's shoes—" objected Mr. Van Pycke, with an apprehensive glance at his son.

"I don't think it would matter, sir," said Bellows, affably. "Mr. Scoville hasn't worn them in two years and a half."

Mr. Van Pycke's look of horror caused Bellows to realize.

"I beg pardon, sir. It would be rather grewsome getting into dead men's boots, sir. I never thought—"

"That's undoubtedly what Mr. Van Pycke is contemplating, Bellows," said Bosworth, slyly.

"Sir!" snapped Mr. Van Pycke.

Bellows' face lighted with the joy of a great discovery. "I have it, sir. If you will wait out here just a few moments, sir, I can have trousers, shoes, and stockings. Have you a notion, sir, as to the size?" He stood back and looked Mr. Van Pycke over carefully. "I think I can fix it, sir."

He departed hastily, closing the drawing-room door behind him. Bosworth sat down upon a frail Italian chair and watched his father unbutton his shoes while standing on one foot, propped against the wall.

"Dad, he's going to sandbag one of the guests and take off his clothes," the young man said, smiling broadly. His eyes were quite steady now, and merry.

"Why are you here, sir?" demanded his father, irrelevantly, suddenly remembering that Bosworth had not mentioned his intention to stop at Mrs. Scoville's.

The young man was spared the expediency of a reply by the return of Bellows, with a pair of trousers over his arm, shoes and stockings in his hand. He seemed in some haste to close the drawing-room door behind him.

"You can change in the room at the head of the stairs, sir."

Mr. Van Pycke, in his stocking feet, preceded the footman up the stairs, treading very tenderly, as if in mortal fear of tacks.

Buzzy twirled his thumbs impatiently. He yawned time and again, and more than once cast his glance in the direction of his coat and hat. Never before, in any house, had he been required to sit in a reception hall until the hostess was ready to receive him elsewhere. He could not understand it. Above all places, Mrs. Scoville's, where the freedom of the house was usually extended to all who in friendship came.

From behind closed doors—distant closed doors, by the way—came the sound of laughter and joyous conversation, faintly audible to the young man in the hall.

"I feel like an ass," said young Mr. Van Pycke, probably to the newel post, there being nothing else quite so human in sight. Then he leaned back with a comfortable smile. "I've virtually tried the three eligibles to-night," he mused. "It's a satisfaction to feel that they haven't dismissed me in so many words, and it's a relief to feel that they haven't had the actual opportunity to accept me. I've done my best. The blizzard disposes. I'll see Krosson to-morrow about a place in his offices."

Mr. Van Pycke came down stairs even more tenderly than he went up. There was a look of pain in his face, and he walked slack-kneed, with his toes turned in a trifle. He was wearing a pair of trousers that had been constructed for a much larger man, except as to height.

"The shoes are too small and the trousers too big," he groaned. "I'm leaving my own up there to be dried out. Bellows says they'll be dry in half an hour. I had to put these on for a while. One can't go around with—er—nothing on, so to speak."

"I'm trying to think who's in there that wears trousers of that size—and shape," murmured Bosworth, surveying his father critically.

"Bah!" rasped the uncomfortable Mr. Van Pycke. "Announce us, Bellows."

Bellows opened the drawing-room door, took a quick peep within, and then, standing aside, announced in his most impressive tones:

"Mr. Van Pycke! Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke!"

The two gentlemen stepped into the long, dimly lighted room. Bellows disappeared quickly down the hall. Mr. Van Pycke, his sense of dignity increased by the desire to offset the only too apparent lack of it, advanced into the middle of the room, politely smiling for the benefit of a group of ladies and gentlemen congregated at the lower end, near the windows. So far as he could see, they were engaged in the vulgar occupation known as staring.

Bosworth Van Pycke stopped just inside the door, clapping his hand to his forehead. His mouth fell open and his eyes popped wide with amazement—almost horror. He sat down suddenly in the nearest chair and continued to gaze blankly at the figures down the room. He heard his father say "Good evening" twice, but he heard no response from the group. His abrupt, incontrollable guffaw of understanding and joy caused his now annoyed parent to whirl upon him in surprise.

"Oh, this is rich!" Bosworth was holding his sides, laughing immoderately.

"Bosworth!" hissed his father, with a conscious glance at his feet and legs. "What the devil amuses you?"

For answer his son strode over and clutched him by the arm, turning him around so that he faced the silent, immovable group.

"See that man back there without trousers? The bare-legged, bare-footed chap? Well, dad, you've got on his pants."

"Good God!" gasped Mr. Van Pycke, nervously hunting for the bridge of his nose with his glasses. "Is the poor fellow naked?"

"Half naked, dad, that's all. Look closely!"

"Sh! Demmit all, boy, he'd knock me down! And the ladies! What the devil does he mean, undressing in this bare-faced—"

"Bare-legged, dad." With a fresh laugh he leaned forward and chucked the nearest lady under the chin. As she was standing directly in front of Van Pycke, senior, that gentleman, in some haste, moved back to avoid the retort physical.

"Bosworth! How—how dare you?" he gasped.

"Can't you see, dad? This is the richest thing I've ever known. Don't be afraid of 'em. They're wax figures, every one of them!"

Mr. Van Pycke started. Then he stared.

"Well, upon my soul!" he gasped. He repeated this remark four or five times during a hasty parade in front of the group, in each instance peering rudely and with growing temerity into the pink and white face of a surpassingly beautiful lady.

"It seems to me that I recognize this one," he said, with a cackle of joy. "I've seen her in Altman's window. 'Pon my soul I have, Bosworth."

"I don't know what Laura's game is, but, by Jove, it's ripping, I'll say that for it," said Bosworth, his face beaming. "How many of them are there?" He counted. "Fourteen. Seven spiketails and seven directoires. Great!"

The two gentlemen withdrew to the upper end of the room, to better the effect. From the dining-room, four rooms away, came the more distinct sounds of laughter and conversation.

"There is a real party out there," said Bosworth, rubbing his chin contemplatively. "I wonder what's up?"

Mr. Van Pycke sat down and twirled his thin mustache, first one side and then the other, murmuring "By Jove!" over and over again in a most perplexed way. Bosworth stood, with his chin between finger and thumb, thoughtfully viewing the inanimate group. For several minutes his face indicated the most penetrating contemplation of the exhibit down the room. He was still a trifle dizzy, but in no danger of losing his attitude of sober reflection.

There were blond ladies and brunettes, old ladies and young ones, and some who were neither; all beautifully, elaborately gowned in the latest models from Paris. Their starry glass eyes gazed into space with the same innocuous stare that baffles all attempts to divert it through plate-glass windows. Some were sitting, some were standing. Gentlemen in evening clothes, with monocles or opera hats—mostly plebeian persons, from Eighth Avenue, you'd say—stood vaguely but stanchly in juxtaposition to ladies who paid no heed to them, but who, however, were not unique in their abstraction. Fuzzy-mustached gentlemen were they, with pink cheeks and iron-clad shoulders. They stared intently but not attentively at the chandeliers or the wall-paper, unwinking gallants who seemed only conscious of their clothes.

The effect was startling, even grewsome. For five minutes Bosworth surveyed the waxy, over-dressed group in profound silence, cudgeling his brain for a key to the puzzling exhibition.

"For the life of me," he said at last, "I can't understand it."

"I understand it perfectly," said his father, still somewhat dismayed by the steady gaze of the last pair of blue eyes he had encountered. "Mrs. Scoville is ordering some new gowns, and the—er—modistes have sent up samples. Perfectly clear to me."

"I suppose she's ordering a few suits of men's garments—garments is what they say in the clothing stores—to lend variety to her wardrobe," said Bosworth, dryly.

Mr. Van Pycke coughed indulgently. "Bosworth, you shouldn't take so many cocktails before—"

"Yes, father," interrupted Bosworth, humbly. "I quite agree with you. For a while I thought it might be the cocktails, but now that you see them, too, I am very much relieved."

"I am very sorry to see a son of mine—"

"Hello!" said Bosworth, his gaze suddenly encountering a table near the fireplace on which were piled a number of small boxes. One could see at a glance that they were jeweller's boxes. "Looks like Christmas."

He got up and strode over to the table.

"Christmas is a week off," said Mr. Van Pycke. "What's up? Some one coming down the chimney? It wouldn't surprise me, by Jove!"

His son was gazing, as if thunderstruck, at the contents of more than a dozen boxes of various sizes. He whistled softly, to best express his wonder.

"Great Scott!" he said, after a moment. "There's half a million dollars' worth of dog-collars, pendants, tiaras, rings, and—" He was holding up, for his father's benefit, a rope of pearls that could not have cost less than a hundred thousand dollars. "Take a look at this, dad!"

Mr. Van Pycke made his way painfully to his son's side. "Astounding!" he murmured, touching a tiara with respectful fingers.

"Say!"

The two Van Pyckes jumped. The voice that uttered the raucous monosyllable was masculine, and it seemed to burst from a spot not far removed from their elbows. Bewildered, they stared this way and that in quest of the rude owner of that voice.

"Keep your hands off o' them jewels," said the voice, levelly.

Bosworth's indignant gaze discovered the man in the very centre of the group of "dummies." The young man experienced a queer shiver of dismay. Was he losing his senses?

A pink-cheeked gentleman with a crÊpe mustache arose from a chair in the extreme background. He leveled a menacing finger, with Bosworth as the object of its concern.

"Move back from that table, gents," remarked the vivified object near the windows. The Messrs. Van Pycke fell back several paces, still staring blankly at the figure.

Bosworth gulped. "Are you—alive?" he demanded, putting his fingers to his temple.

"Alive? What do you think I am? A corrupse?" exclaimed the figure.

"I meant to say, are you the only live one in—in the crowd?"

The man looked about him, perplexed. Then he understood. "Oh, you mean these freaks? Say, my disguise must be all right. I look like a waxwork, do I? I—"

Mr. Van Pycke had recovered his dignity. "What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir? Explain yourself."

The man picked his way carefully through the group of wax figures. He was a sturdy person whose evening clothes did not fit him, now that one observed him carefully. When he was clear of the group, he calmly turned back the lapel of his coat, revealing a nickel-plated star.

"Does that star signify anything, gents? It says I'm here on this job, that's all. Just to see that nobody walks off with the sparklers. I'm from Wilkerson's Private Detective Agency. See? Now, I'd like to know when and how you got into this room."

He faced them threateningly.

The Van Pyckes started.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Bosworth, turning quite red.

"Just what I say, young feller. When did you come in here?"

"You say you are a detective!" sneered Bosworth.

The man from Wilkerson's blinked his eyes suddenly. "I—I guess I dropped off to sleep for a couple of minutes. Up for three nights—"

"Do you recognize these trousers?" demanded the young man, pointing to his father's ridiculous legs.

The detective peered rather closely. Mr. Van Pycke drew back and glared at him through his glasses.

"By thunder, they don't fit him, do they? Say, there's something wrong with you guys. Where'd you get them pants, you?"

"Me?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke.

"Yes, you!"

"I'll have you pitched from this house, you impertinent scoundrel!" roared Mr. Van Pycke, threatened with apoplexy.

"Where'd you get them pants?" repeated the sleuth, steadily. "And them shoes! Say, this has a queer look. I'll have to—here! What's the matter with you? What you laughin' at? It won't be so blamed funny, young feller, let me tell you that. You guys can't—"

"You're a fine detective, you are," laughed Bosworth.

"I'm Doxey, the star man of the agency," retorted the detective, angrily.

"It's a wonder my father isn't wearing your trousers, Mr. Doxey. It would have been quite as easy, and I really think they'd fit him better than they fit you. Don't lose your temper, please. Good detectives never lose their tempers. Please remember that. Now, if you'll be good enough to cast your eyes upon that shameless person near the cabinet over there, you'll—"

"Great Scott!" gasped Mr. Doxey, his eyes bulging.

"That's right! Keep your eye on him. I don't know who your friend is, Mr. Doxey, but my father is temporarily inhabiting his trousers—and shoes. You must have slept soundly not to have been disturbed when Bellows took them off. You'll find—"

"Come off!" growled Doxey. "The old man didn't come here without pants, did he? And if he had his own on, what in thunder was he trading with—"

Bosworth held up his hand imperatively.

"Good detectives don't discuss their deductions with—never mind! I sha'n't say it. Now, it may interest you to know that we are close personal friends of Mrs. Scoville. We—"

"Don't haggle with the demmed scoundrel," protested Mr. Van Pycke, vigorously.

"Now, don't get fresh—don't get fresh!" said Mr. Doxey, his fusty black mustache coming loose on one side and drooping over his lip.

"Don't bite it!" cautioned Bosworth, hastily. Mr. Doxey stuck it back in place with a white kid paw of huge dimensions.

"I am Bosworth Van Pycke, and this is my father, Mr. Van Dieman Van Pycke," said Bosworth, bowing very low.

"Van Pycke? Wait a minute. I got a list of the guests here in my pocket. I'll see if you're among 'em. If you belong here, why ain't you out there eatin' with the rest of 'em?" Mr. Doxey looked up suspiciously from the paper he had taken from his coat pocket. "I don't like this pants gag. It sounds fishy."

"Fishy?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke. "What the devil does he mean by that, Bosworth?"

"It's his way of calling me a liar, dad, that's all."

"Say, there ain't any Van Pyckes on this list. And this is the correct list, too. The butler gave it to me himself. I—"

Bosworth suddenly lost his playful manner. He was tired of the game.

"That will do, Mr. Doxey. Be good enough to go back to your corner," he said coldly. "I mean it. Don't stand there glaring. It has no effect on me. I am Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke. I don't blame you for protecting the jewels—even from Van Pyckes—but there's nothing more for you to do, so far as we are concerned. We are waiting for Mrs. Scoville and her guests. And, say, on your way back to your chair—or was it a couch?—be good enough to drape a table cover about the limbs of that unfortunate person with the bald head—and bald legs, I might add."

Mr. Doxey looked from one to the other with interest, not to say curiosity. Something in the young man's manner carried conviction.

"Are you the—the Buzzy Van Pycke who gave the supper for Carmen the other—"

"I am," Bosworth interjected. "I didn't see you there, Mr. Doxey."

Mr. Doxey snickered. "My wife wouldn't 'a' stood for me—"

"My good man, there were a number of married men there. All of 'em, no doubt, were being shadowed by detectives. I thought perhaps you might have got in—but, there! I am tattling. Please sit down, Mr. Doxey."

He threw himself into a comfortable chair and crossed his legs. Then he proceeded to light a cigaret.

Mr. Van Pycke, senior, had been sitting for some minutes, a strangely preoccupied look in his eyes, his lips twitching as if with pain.

"I guess I'll just set out here," said the detective, looking from one to the other shrewdly. "The town's full of those Raffles crooks. How do I know—"

"Quite right, Doxey. How could you know? You sleep too soundly."

"If you're what you say you are, why don't you call in the footman to identify you?"

"Bellows has already announced us, Mr. Doxey. I'm hanged if I'll ask him to do it over again. Now that I think of it, he almost burst while doing it. It's not my fault that you did not hear him."

Mr. Doxey looked uncomfortable.

"Well, just keep your hands off from the jewels," he said.

Mr. Van Pycke, senior, spoke for the first time in many minutes. It was easy to see where his thoughts had been directed during the trifling dialogue. His gaze was attached to the patent-leather shoes he wore.

"I don't see how that demmed dummy ever got into these shoes. They're almost killing me. Confound it, Bosworth, don't grin like an ape! You are tight, sir,—disgustingly tight!"

"I'll lay you a fiver I'm not so tight as the shoes, dad."

Mr. Doxey snickered. Van Pycke, pÈre, glared at him in a shocked sort of way for a moment, and then, disdaining the affront, fell to tenderly pressing each of his insteps, very much as if trying to discover a spot that had not yet developed a pain.

The detective took a seat where he could watch the two gentlemen and at the same time keep an eye on the door through to the dining-room far beyond. Bosworth smoked in silence for some time.

"What's the meaning of all this?" he asked, after a while, indicating the group of dummies with a comprehensive sweep of his hand.

"I'm not here to answer questions," said Mr. Doxey, succinctly.

"Oh!" said Bosworth.

Mr. Van Pycke stirred restlessly. "By Jove, I think I'll—'I'll have to go upstairs and change these shoes for my own, wet or dry. I can't stand 'em any longer. I dare say my trousers are dry by this time, too." He arose with great deliberateness. He took two delicate steps toward the hall door; then Mr. Doxey's irritatingly brusque voice brought him up with a jerk.

"Hold on, there! None o' that—none o' that! You set right where you are, mister. I guess I'll just keep you in plain view for a while. Fine work, me lettin' you go upstairs, eh? Fine work, I don't think!"

"Confound you, sir, I'll—" began Mr. Van Pycke, drawing himself to his full height with a spasmodic effort that brought its results in pain.

"Sit down, father," advised Bosworth, gently. Mr. Van Pycke sat down. "There's some one coming," added his son a moment later. He arose and turned toward the portiÈres at the upper end of the room, prepared to greet the beautiful Mrs. Scoville.

The portiÈres parted at the bottom. All eyes were lowered. The most unamiable looking bulldog that ever crossed man's path protruded his squat body into the room, pausing just inside the curtains to survey the trio before him in a most disconcertingly pointed manner. His whole body seemed to convert itself into a scowl of disapproval.

Bosworth sat down dismayed. His father swore softly and drew his feet a bit nearer to the legs of the chair. Both of them knew the dog. They knew, moreover, that the only living creature in the whole world exempt from peril was the beast's mistress, the fair lady to whom they had come to pay coincidental devoirs. All other persons came under the head of prey, so far as Agrippa was concerned—Agrippa being the somewhat ominous name of the pet.

"How—how does he happen to be loose?" murmured Bosworth, with a side glance at the detective.

"Is he dangerous?" asked Mr. Doxey.

"He's a man-eater," said the other, quite uncomfortably.

"Nobody told me about a watchdog."

"Ah, now I understand why he's loose," said Bosworth, promptly. Mr. Doxey looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened his lips to resent the imputation, half rising from his chair to obtain greater emphasis in his delivery.

Agrippa emitted a prophetic growl. Mr. Doxey resumed his seat in some haste.

"Will he bite?" he demanded instead.

"Bite? Hang it all, man, he'll chew us to ribbons if we move. I—I know that dog. We don't dare to twiddle until Mrs. Scoville comes in to call him off. He's got us treed, that's all there is to it. I wouldn't move my little finger for fifty dollars cash. Look at his eyes! Observe the size of his incisors!"

"I believe you," said Mr. Doxey, with a belated shudder.

"Demmed outrage!" sputtered Mr. Van Pycke. "Now I can't take them off."

Mr. Doxey was seized by an inspiration. He smiled. "Why don't you go upstairs and change 'em?" he asked. Mr. Van Pycke moved one foot, evidently agitated by a desire to kick Mr. Doxey. Agrippa growled. "Just to see if he will bite," added the detective, with a nervous laugh.

"You go to the devil, sir!" grated Mr. Van Pycke, but entirely without muscular emotion.

Conversation lagged. For five minutes the three men sat immovable, staring with intensely wakeful eyes at the grim figure of Agrippa, who had eyes for all of them. He had moved farther into the room, possibly for the purpose of indulging in a more or less unobstructed scrutiny of the mysterious group of ladies and gentlemen beyond. Agrippa was puzzled but not disturbed. He was not what you would call an inquisitive dog.

"I have never been so insulted in my life," said Mr. Van Pycke, without raising his voice above a polite monotone.

"Neither have I," said Mr. Doxey.

"You, sir? You are the insult, sir. How can you be insulted? It is impossible to insult an insult. I won't put up with—"

"Keep cool, father," warned Bosworth. "You came very near to moving your leg just then. I warn you."

"I'm quite sure a dog couldn't add anything to the pain I'm already suffering from these demmed shoes. Come here, doggie! Nice doggie!" The wheedling tones made no impression on Agrippa. "What an unfriendly beast!"

The figures in wax down the room were not more rigid than the four creatures above—three men and a dog. A little French clock on the mantelpiece clicked off the seconds in a more or less sonorous manner; Mr. Van Pycke's sighs and the detective's heavy breathing were quite plainly distinguishable, even though the wind howled with lusty lungs at every window in an effort to monopolize attention.

"I shall have that dog shot the very first thing," mused Mr. Van Pycke aloud.

"I guess not," protested Bosworth. "He's a corker. I wouldn't take a thousand for him."

Then they shot simultaneous glances of apprehension at each other. Each wondered if he had let his cat out of the bag.

Bosworth was quick to say to himself: "I see through the governor's game. Well, I'm a dutiful son. I've tried for three of them to-night and Fate has been against me. It means that I'm intended for something better than matrimony."

Bosworth's father was thinking: "If I don't ask her at once, he'll propose. And she'll take him in a second if he does. I'll not give him the chance. I'll get it over with inside of five minutes. And I will kill that demmed dog."

Agrippa pricked up his ears and turned his head ever so slightly in the direction of the portiÈres behind him. A moment later the light, quick tread of some one was heard in the adjoining room, accompanied by the swish of silky garments.

Three pairs of eyes were lifted to the portiÈres. A young woman appeared between the heavy silk curtains. For a second she held an attitude of polite inquiry. Then a wrinkle of perplexity crept into her smooth, white forehead. She looked in surprise from one to the other of the motionless gentlemen, ignoring the detective as completely as if he had not been there at all.

What surprised her most was the fact that the Messrs. Van Pycke, noted as the most courteous of men, remained rooted to their chairs.

"Good evening," said Bosworth, allowing his gaze to stray from her now indignant face to the commanding jowl of Agrippa. "Pardon me for not arising—pardon all of us, I might say,—but it is quite out of the question. By Jove! Do you happen to know Agrippa? If you don't, please escape while you can. He's—"

"Agrippa? Oh!" She had a very soft, musical voice. It was doubly attractive because of an uncertain quaver that bespoke amazement. "Are you Mr. Van Pycke?" She looked at the young man with unmistakable interest—or was it curiosity?

"I am Mr. Van Pycke's son," said Bosworth, cautiously inclining his head.

The young lady smiled suddenly. "You poor men!" she cried. "Agrippa! Come here, sir!"

Agrippa's dominion was ended. He turned to her, a very humble dog. She leaned over and boxed his ears with a soft, white hand—but so gently that Agrippa would have smiled if he knew how. He did wag his stubby tail by way of acknowledgment. "Please don't stir," she said to the three appalled observers. "I'll take him away. He's a very naughty dog."

She departed, Agrippa's collar in her fingers. A moment later she returned. The three men were standing, but, by curious coincidence, each had taken a position behind the chair he had occupied.

"Mrs. Scoville begs me to say that she is sorry to have kept you waiting so long, and that she will be down as soon as she has changed her gown."

"Her gown?" murmured Bosworth.

"Changing it for what?" muttered Mr. Van Pycke, dreadfully bewildered.

"For a street gown. She's going out, you see."

Mr. Doxey coughed by way of attracting attention. "Do you know these gents, Miss Downing?"

The smile deepened in her face. Bosworth never had seen a smile so ravishing. He smiled in sympathy, without knowing just why he did it.

"It isn't necessary to watch them any longer," she said very sweetly. Mr. Doxey retired to the group near the windows.

"Thanks," said Bosworth, bowing to her.

"Pardon me," said his father, "but I understood Mrs. Scoville was at dinner."

"That was some time ago, Mr. Van Pycke," the girl said quickly. "She just had to change her gown, you know."

"Spilled something on it?" he queried. "These confounded servants are so—"

"Won't you sit down?" she interrupted. Bosworth noted a sudden touch of nervousness in her manner. For some reason she bit her lip as she looked in the direction of the dummies.

"If you don't mind," mumbled Mr. Van Pycke, "I think I'll go upstairs and change my shoes and trousers." He started for the door.

Miss Downing stood aghast—petrified.