, though, that for a party who's been crossed off the
dividend list for more'n a year, he's chuckin' a good bluff. Some
spiffy bachelor apartments these are that I locates--tubbed bay trees
out front, tapestry panels in the reception-room, and a doorman
uniformed like a rear-admiral. I has to tell the 'phone girl who I am
and why, and get an upstairs O. K., before I'm passed on to the
elevator. Also my ring at B suite, third floor, is answered by a
perfectly good valet.

"From Mr. Ellins, sir?" says he, openin' the door a crack.

"Straight," says I.

He swings it wide and bows respectful. A classy party, this man of Mr.
Adams', too. Nothing down-and-out about him. Tuxedo, white tie, and
neat trimmed siders in front of his ears. One of these quiet spoken,
sleuthy movin' gents he is, a reg'lar stage valet. But he manages to
give me the once-over real thorough as he's towin' me in.

"This way, sir," says he, brushin' back the draperies and shuntin' me
in among the leather chairs and Oriental rugs.

Standin' in the middle of the room, with his feet wide apart, is Mr.
Adams, like he was waitin' impatient. You'd hardly call him sick abed.
I expect it would take a subway smash to dent him any. But, if his man
fails to look the part of better days gone by, Ham Adams is the true
picture of a seedy sport. His padded silk dressin'-gown is fringed
along the cuffs, and one of the shoulder seams is split; his slippers
are run over; and his shirt should have gone to the wash last week.
Also his chin is decorated in two places with surgeon's tape and has a
thick growth of stubble on it. As I drifts in he's makin' a bum
attempt to' roll a cigarette and is gazin' disgusted at the result.

"Why didn't Bob come himself?" he demands peevish.

"Rush of business," says I. "He'd been takin' time off and the work
piled up on him."

"Humph!" says Adams. "Well, I've got to see him, that's all."

"In that case," says I, "you ought to drop around about--"

"Out of the question," says he. "Look at me. Been trying to shave
myself. Besides-- Well, I can't!"

"Mr. Robert thought," I goes on, "that you might--"

"Well?" breaks in Mr. Adams, turnin' his back on me sudden and glarin'
at the draperies. "What is it, Nivens?"

At which the valet appears, holdin' a bunch of roses.

"From Mrs. Grenville Hawks, sir," says he. "They came while you were
at breakfast, sir."

"Well, well, put them in a vase--in there," says Ham