caught the twinkle of her wrist-watch. In the startling familiarity of
the magnifying glass he could see her bright, unconscious face, the
merry profile of her cheek and chin. . . . "The idea of that girl
working in a second-hand bookstore!" he exclaimed. "It's positive
sacrilege! Old man Chapman must be crazy."

He took out his pyjamas and threw them on the bed; put his toothbrush
and razor on the wash-basin, laid hairbrushes and O. Henry on the
bureau. Feeling rather serio-comic he loaded his small revolver and
hipped it. It was six o'clock, and he wound his watch. He was a
little uncertain what to do: whether to keep a vigil at the window
with the opera glasses, or go down in the street where he could watch
the bookshop more nearly. In the excitement of the adventure he had
forgotten all about the cut on his scalp, and felt quite chipper. In
leaving Madison Avenue he had attempted to excuse the preposterousness
of his excursion by thinking that a quiet week-end in Brooklyn would
give him an opportunity to jot down some tentative ideas for Daintybits
advertising copy which he planned to submit to his chief on Monday.
But now that he was here he felt the impossibility of attacking any
such humdrum task. How could he sit down in cold blood to devise any
"attention-compelling" lay-outs for Daintybits Tapioca and Chapman's
Cherished Saratoga Chips, when the daintiest bit of all was only a few
yards away? For the first time was made plain to him the amazing power
of young women to interfere with the legitimate commerce of the world.
He did get so far as to take out his pad of writing paper and jot down

CHAPMAN'S CHERISHED CHIPS

These delicate wafers, crisped by a secret process, cherish in their
unique tang and flavour all the life-giving nutriment that has made the
potato the King of Vegetables----

But the face of Miss Titania kept coming between his hand and brain.
Of what avail to flood the world with Chapman Chips if the girl herself
should come to any harm? "Was this the face that launched a thousand
chips?" he murmured, and for an instant wished he had brought The
Oxford Book of English Verse instead of O. Henry.

A tap sounded at his door, and Mrs. Schiller appeared. "Telephone for
you, Mr. Gilbert," she said.

"For ME?" said Aubrey in amazement. How could it be for him, he
thought, for no one knew he was there.

"The party on the wire asked to speak to the gentleman who ar