since she happens just now to be our guest--well, you get the idea,
McCabe."

"What do you think he's up to?" says I.

Purdy-Pell shrugs his shoulders. "If he were the average youth, one
might guess," says he; "but Robin Hollister is different. His mother is
a Pitt Medway, one of the Georgia Medways."

"You don't say!" says I. I expect I ought to know just how a Georgia
Medway differs from a New Jersey Medway, or the Connecticut brand; but,
sad to say, I don't. Purdy-Pell, though, havin' been raised in the
South himself, seems to think that everyone ought to know the traits of
all the leadin' fam'lies between the Potomac and the Chattahoochee.

"Last time, you know," goes on Purdy-Pell, "it was a Miss Maggie Toots,
a restaurant cashier, and a perfectly impossible person. We broke that
up, though."

"Ye-e-es?" says I.

"Robin's mother seemed to think then," says he, "that it was largely my
fault. I suppose she'll feel the same about whatever mischief he's in
now. If I could only find the young scamp! But really I haven't time.
I'm an hour late at the Boomer Days' as it is."

"Then toddle along," says I. "If I'm unanimously elected to do this
kid-reformin' act, I expect I might as well get busy."

So as soon as the butler's through loadin' Purdy-Pell into the limousine
I cross-examines Jarvis about young Mr. Hollister's motions. Yes, he'd
shown up at the house both nights. It might have been late, perhaps
quite late. Then this afternoon he'd 'phoned to have his evenin' clothes
sent uptown by messenger. No, he couldn't remember the number, or the
name of the hotel.

"Ah, come, Jarvis!" says I. "We know you're strong for the young man,
and all that. But this is for the best. Dig it up now! You must have put
the number down at the time. Where's the 'phone pad?"

He produces it, blank. "You see, Sir," says he, "I tore off the leaf and
gave it to the messenger."

"But you're a heavy writer, ain't you?" says I. "Find me a readin'
glass."

And, sure enough, by holdin' the pad under the big electrolier in the
lib'ry, we could trace out the address.

"Huh!" says I. "The Maison Maxixe, one of them new trot palaces! Ring up
a taxi, Jarvis."

Didn't happen to be up around there yourself that night, did you? If you
had, you couldn't missed seein' him,--the old guy with the Dixie lid and
the prophet's beard, and the snake-killer staff in his fist,--for with
that gold and green entrance as a background, and in all tha