other a stubborn, attractive fool.  They are equally untrained in diplomacy and unable to cover their real feelings.  Here am I, practically dragging them into the limelight, when it would be far better for themselves—­perhaps for me—­that they remained in oblivion.  Ah, well:  I called it an adventure:  let me hope some tangible plot will develop to compensate me for my trouble.  Life seems deadly dull; I need excitement.  Is it to be furnished by John Merrick’s nieces, I wonder?” Willing Square is a new district, crowded with fashionable apartment houses.  That is, they are called fashionable by their builders and owners and accepted as such by their would-be fashionable occupants.  Diana knew at least two good families resident in Willing Square, and though she smiled grimly at the rows of “oppressively new and vulgar” buildings, she still was not ashamed to have her equipage seen waiting there.

Number 3708 Willing Square is a very substantial and cozy appearing apartment building owned in fee by Miss Patricia Doyle.  Diana was unaware of this fact, but rang the Doyle bell and ascended to the second floor.

A maid received her with the announcement that Miss Doyle had “just stepped out,” but was somewhere in the building.  Would the visitor care to wait a few minutes?

Yes; Diana decided she would wait.  She took a seat in the snug front parlor and from her position noted the series of rooms that opened one into another throughout the suite, all richly but tastefully furnished in homely, unassuming manner.  “This is better,” she mused.  “There is no attempt at foolish display in this establishment, at any rate.  I hope to find Miss Doyle a sensible, refined person.  The name is Irish.”

A door slammed somewhere down the line of rooms and a high-pitched voice cried in excited tones: 

“I’ve found a baby!  Hi, there, Nunkie, dear—­I’ve found a baby!”

Thereupon came the sound of a chair being pushed back as a man’s voice answered in equal glee: 

“Why, Patsy, Patsy! it’s the little rogue from upstairs.  Here, Bobby; come to your own old Uncle!”

“He won’t.  He belongs to me; don’t you, Bobby darlin’?”

A babyish voice babbled merrily, but the sounds were all “goos” and “ahs” without any resemblance to words.  Bobby may have imagined he was talking, but he was not very intelligible.

“See here, Patsy Doyle; you gimme that baby.” cried the man, pleadingly.  “I found him myself, and he’s mine.  I’ve dragged him here all the way from his home upstairs, an’ don’t you dare lay a finger on him.  Uncle John!”

“Fair play, Patsy!  Bobby’s my chum, and—­”

“Well, I’ll let you have half of him, Nunkie.  Down on your hands and knees, sir, and be a horse.  That’s it—­Now, Bobby, straddle Uncle John and drive him by his necktie—­here it is.  S-t-e-a-d-y, Uncle; and neigh—­neigh like a horse!”

“How does a horse neigh, Patsy?” asked a muffled voice, choking and chuckling at the same time.