That Sunday morning meeting with Miss Bentley had been reviewed by the Candy Man from every possible standpoint, and always, in conclusion, with the same questions.  Could he have done otherwise?  What would she think when she discovered her mistake?  Who was his unknown double?

The opportunity offering, he made some guarded inquiries of the Reporter.

“Bentley?” repeated that gentleman, as he sharpened a bright yellow pencil.  “Seem to have heard the name somewhere recently.”

It was a matter of no particular importance to the Candy Man.  He had chanced to hear the name given to the conductor by the young lady who was thrown down the night of the accident, and wondered——­

The Reporter, who wasn’t listening, here exclaimed:  “I have it!  It was this A.M.  Maimie McHugh was interviewing Mrs. Gerrard Pennington over the office ’phone in regard to a luncheon she is giving this week in honour of her niece.  Said niece’s name me-thinks was Bentley.  You will see it all in the social notes later.  Covers for twelve, decorations in pink, La France roses, place cards from somewhere.”  He paused to laugh.  “Maimie was doing it up brown, but she lacks tact.  What does she do but ask for Miss Bentley’s picture for the Saturday edition!  I tried to stop her, but it was too late.  You should have heard the ’phone buzz.  ’My niece’s picture in the Evening Record!’ ’I don’t care, mean old thing,’ says Maimie, when she hung up.  ’Nicer people than she is do it, and are glad to.  ‘That’s all right, my honey,’ I told her, ’but there are nice people and nice people, and it’s up to you to know the variety you are dealing with, unless you like to be snubbed.’  Still,” the Reporter added reflectively, “Mrs. Gerrard Pennington and little McHugh can’t afford to quarrel.  After the luncheon Mrs. G.P. will probably send Maimie a pair of long white gloves, and when their pristine freshness has departed, Maimie will wear them to the office a time or two.”

The Candy Man wished to know who Mrs. Gerrard Pennington was, anyway.

“She, my ignorant friend, is a four-ply Colonial Dame, so to speak.  Distinguished grandfathers to burn, and the dough to support them, unlike another friend of mine who possessed every qualification needed to become a C.D. except on the clothes line.”

“The joke,” observed the Candy Man, “is old, but worth repeating.  But did I understand you to say another friend?  And am I to infer——?”

“You are far too keen for a Candy Man,” said the Reporter, laughing.  “Mrs. G.P. is friendly with the wealthy branch of our family.  She regards my Cousin Augustus as a son.  Now I think of it, your Miss Bentley cannot be her niece.  She could scarcely fall out of a street car.  A victoria or a limousine would be necessary in her case.”

The Candy Man did not see his way clear to disclaim proprietorship in Miss Bentley, so let it pass.  Certainly, on other grounds his Miss Bentley, to call her so, could not be Mrs. Gerrard Pennington’s niece.  Not that she lacked the charm to grace any position however high, but her simplicity and friendliness, the fact that she walked in the country with a stoutish relative who was intimate with the family of the park superintendent, the marketing he had witnessed, all went to prove his point.