?" he asked.

"I don't know, but whatever time it is I'll get you down to it," said
Wallingford. "This is warning enough for me. It's time to close up and
take my profits."

The next east-bound train found Blackie Daw and Wallingford at the
station, and just as it slowed down, Blackie, with Wallingford helping
him carry his grips, was at the steps of the parlor car. He stood
aside for the stream of descending passengers to step down, and had
turned to address some remark to Wallingford, when he saw that
gentleman's face blanch and his jaw drop. A second later a gauzy
female had descended from the car and seized upon J. Rufus. Even as
she turned upon him, Blackie felt the sinking certainty that this was
Miss Forsythe.

"And this is Signor Matteo, I am sure," she gushed. "You're _not_
going away!"

"Yes," interposed Wallingford, "his grandmother--I mean his mother--in
Genoa is at the point of death, and he must make a hasty trip. He will
return again in a month."

"Oh, it is too bad, too bad indeed!" she exclaimed. "I sympathize with
you, _so_ deeply, Signor Matteo. Signor,..."

The dreaded moment had come, and Wallingford braced himself as Miss
Forsythe, cocking her head upon one side archly, like a dear little
bird, gurgled out one of her very choicest bits of phonograph Italian!

Blackie Daw never batted an eyelash. He beamed upon Miss Forsythe,
he displayed his dazzling white teeth in a smile of intense
gratification, he grasped Miss Forsythe's two hands in the fervor of
his enthusiasm--and, with every appearance of lively intelligence
beaming from his eyes, he fired at Miss Forsythe a tumultuous stream
of utterly unintelligible gibberish!

As his flow continued, to the rhythm of an occasional, warm, double
handshake, Miss Forsythe's face turned pink and then red, and when at
last, upon the conductor's signal, Blackie hastily tore himself away
and clambered on board, waving his hand to the last and erupting
strange syllables which had no kith or kin, Miss Forsythe turned to
Wallingford, nearly crying.

"It is humiliating; it is _so_ humiliating," she admitted, trapped
into confession by the suddenness of it all; "but, after all my weeks
of preparation, I wasn't able to understand one word of that
beautiful, limpid Italian!"

CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH J. RUFUS GIVES HIMSELF THE SURPRISE
OF HIS LIFE

Wallingford had kept his finger carefully upon the pulse of the Bubble
Bank by apparently incons