s Bruce; "a--a person who could
state the circumstances fairly and sound him out to see how he felt
about it. You know? Someone who would--er----"

"Do the job like a Turkish diplomat inviting an Armenian revolutionist
to come and dine with him in some secluded mosque at daybreak, eh?" asks
Mr. Robert. "Polite, but not insistent, I suppose?"

"Oh, something like that," says Bruce.

"He's right here," says Mr. Robert.

"I beg pardon?" says Bruce, starin'.

"Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "He'll do it with finesse and finish, and if
there's any way of getting Dick to hang back by pretending to push him
ahead our young friend who cerebrates in high speed will discover the
same."

"Ah, come, Mr. Robert!" says I.

"Oh, we shall demand no miracles," says he. "But you understand the
situation. Mr. Mackey's conscience is on the rampage and he's making
this sacrifice as a peace offering. If the altar fires consume it,
that's his look out. You get me, I presume?"

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Sayin' a piece, wasn't you?"

Just the same, I'm started out at 2:30 Monday afternoon to interview Mr.
Dick Harrington on something intimate and personal. Mr. Robert has been
'phonin' his law offices and found that Mr. Harrington can probably be
located best up in the Empire Theatre building, where they're havin' a
rehearsal of a new musical show that he's interested in financially.

"With a sentimental interest, no doubt, in some sweet young thing who
dances or sings, or thinks she does," comments Mr. Robert. "Anyway, look
him up."

And by pushin' through a lot of doors that had "Keep Out" signs on 'em,
and givin' the quick back up to a few fresh office boys, I trails Mr.
Dick Harrington into the dark front of a theatre where he's sittin' with
the producer and four of the seven authors of the piece watchin' a stage
full of more or less young ladies in street clothes who are listenin'
sort of bored while a bald-headed party in his shirt sleeves asks 'em
for the love of Mike can't they move a little less like they was all
spavined.

Don't strike me as just the place to ask a man will he stand up in
church and help his daughter get married, but I had my orders. I slips
into a seat back of him, taps him on the shoulder, and whispers how I
have a message for him from his wife as was.

"From Louise?" says he. "The devil you say!"

"I could put it better," I suggests, "if we could find a place where
there wasn't quite so much competition."