have sat up rather too suddenly, for, seeing the yacht had
reached home, Mr. Farrell beamed. Complacently his wife smoothed an
imaginary wrinkle in her skirt.

"Eighteen men!" she protested, "with nothing to do but clean brass and
eat three meals a day!"

Farrell released his death grip on the silk hat to make a sweeping
gesture.

"They earn their wages," he said generously.

"Aren't they taking us this week to Cap May?"

"They're taking the yacht to Cape May!" corrected Mrs. Farrell; "not ME!"

"The sea does not agree with her," explained Farrell; "WE'RE going by
automobile." Mrs. Farrell now took up the wondrous tale.

"It's a High Flyer, 1915 model," she explained; "green, with white enamel
leather inside, and red wheels outside. You can see it from the window."

Somewhat dazed, I stepped to the window and found you could see it from
almost anywhere. It was as large as a freight car; and was entirely
surrounded by taxi-starters, bellboys, and nurse-maids. The chauffeur,
and a deputy chauffeur, in a green livery with patent-leather leggings,
were frowning upon the mob. They possessed the hauteur of ambulance
surgeons. I returned to my chair, and then rose hastily to ask if I
could not offer Mr. Farrell some refreshment.

"Mebbe later," he said. Evidently he felt that as yet he had not
sufficiently impressed me.

"Harbor Castle," he recited, "has eighteen bedrooms, billiard-room,
music-room, art gallery and swimming-pool." He shook his head. "And no
one to use 'em but us. We had a boy." He stopped, and for an instant, as
though asking pardon, laid his hand upon the knee of Mrs. Farrell.
"But he was taken when he was four, and none came since. My wife has a
niece," he added, "but----"

"But," interrupted Mrs. Farrell, "she was too high and mighty for
plain folks, and now there is no one. We always took an interest in
you because your name was Farrell. We were always reading of you in
the papers. We have all your books, and a picture of you in the
billiard-room. When folks ask me if we are any relation--sometimes I
tell 'em we ARE."

As though challenging me to object, she paused.

"It's quite possible," I said hastily. And, in order to get rid of them,
I added: "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write to Ireland and----"

Farrell shook his head firmly. "You don't need to write to Ireland," he
said, "for what we want."

"What DO you want?" I asked.

"We want a SON," said Farrell; "an adopted son. We wa