Chillingworth nodded approvingly.

“Your imagination is toning down wonderfully,” he flattered him.  “A month ago you would have guessed that the mulatto lady was an Egyptian princess’ messenger sent over here to get the heart from an American heiress as an ingredient for a complexion lotion.  You’re coming on famously, Todd.”

“The German poet Wieland,” began Benfy, clearing his throat, “has, in his epic of the Oberon made admirable use of much the same idea, Mr. Chillingworth—­”

Yells interrupted him.  Mr. Benfy was too “well-read” to be wholly popular with the staff.

“Oh, well, the woman was crazy.  That’s about all,” suggested Harding, and blushed to the line of his hair.

“Yes, I guess so,” assented Holt, who lifted and lowered one shoulder as he talked, “or doped.”

Chillingworth sighed and looked at them both with pursed lips.

“You two,” he commented, “would get out a paper that everybody would know to be full of reliable facts, and that nobody would buy.  To be born with a riotous imagination and then hardly ever to let it riot is to be a born newspaper man.  Provin?”

The elder giant leaned back, his eyes partly closed.

“Is she engaged to be married?” he asked.  “Is Miss Holland engaged?”

Chillingworth shook his head.

“No,” he said, “not engaged.  We knew that by tea-time the same day, Provin.  Well, St. George?”

St. George drew a long breath.

“By Jove, I don’t know,” he said, “it’s a stunning story.  It’s the best story I ever remember, excepting those two or three that have hung fire for so long.  Next to knowing just why old Ennis disinherited his son at his marriage, I would like to ferret out this.”

“Now, tut, St. George,” Amory put in tolerantly, “next to doing exactly what you will be doing all this week you’d rather ferret out this.”

“On my honour, no,” St. George protested eagerly, “I mean quite what I say.  I might go on fearfully about it.  Lord knows I’m going to see the day when I’ll do it, too, and cut my troubles for the luck of chasing down a bully thing like this.”

If there was anything to forgive, every one forgave him.

“But give up ten minutes on The Aloha,” Amory skeptically put it, adjusting his pince-nez, “for anything less than ten minutes on The Aloha?”

“I’ll do it now—­now!” cried St. George.  “If Mr. Chillingworth will put me on this story in your place and will give you a week off on The Aloha, you may have her and welcome.”

Little Cawthorne pounded on the table.

“Where do I come in?” he wailed.  “But no, all I get is another wad o’ woe.”

“What do you say, Mr. Chillingworth?” St. George asked eagerly.

“I don’t know,” said Chillingworth, meditatively turning his glass.  “St. George is rested and fresh, and he feels the story.  And Amory—­here, touch glasses with me.”