A car was coming up behind him with a familiar noise of rattle.  It was the doctor.  Kenny sat up, alert, inspired, excited.

“Doctor,” he called cheerfully, “is there a long distance telephone near?”

“A mile on.  Road to the right,” called the doctor, inwardly amazed at his visitor’s mercurial disposition.  “They call it Rink’s Hotel.  Not much of a place.  Really a road house.  But you’ll find a telephone.”

Kenny found the telephone at Rink’s Hotel in a pantry near the barroom and closed the door to insure his privacy.  It seemed an interminable interval of waiting, an interval of blankness filled with voices calling numbers on to further voices, before the Club Central answered.  Again he waited, tapping with impatience on the table.  When the voice came he wanted, it was far away and drowsy.  Kenny looked at his watch.  It was not yet eight o’clock.

“Garry,” he said, “is that you?”

“Yes.  Who’s calling?”

“It’s I—­Kenny.”

“Kenny!” Garry’s astonished voice came clearly over the wire.  “Kenny, where on earth did you go?” he demanded.  “And what’s the matter?  Is anything wrong?  What are you doing up in the middle of the night?”

Kenny snorted.

“Garry,” he said, “I’m mailing to you now in a very few minutes my check for four thousand dollars—­”

“Say it again.”

“I said—­I’m mailing to you—­my check—­for—­four thousand—­dollars.”

“Wait a minute, Kenny.  This wire must be out of order.”

Kenny swore beneath his teeth.

“I said,” he repeated with withering distinctness, “that I—­am—­mailing—­to
—­you—­my—­check—­for—­four—­thousand—­dollars.  And I want you to cash it in old bills.  Get, that, Garry, please.  Old bills.”

“Old bills!” repeated Garry in a strangled voice.  “For the love of Mike! . . . Old bills!”

“Garry!  For God’s sake, listen!  This is absolute, unadulterated common sense.  I want you to get that money in old bills, the older the better.  Ragged if you can.  And I want you to send it to me, Craig Farm, by registered package, special delivery.”

“Are you in some mess or other?  Because if you are I’ll bring it.”

“No, I can wait.  I particularly don’t want you to bring it.  I can’t explain now.  I’ll write you all the details.  Then I want you to get a statement from the bank.  Even with the four thousand gone, my balance ought to be at least a thousand dollars.  See what they make it.”

“Yes.”

“Next I want you to call up Ann Marvin and ask her if she’s still looking for another girl to share her studio with her . . .  Ann Marvin.”

“Peggy’s with her.”

“I know that.  She said she wanted a third girl.  If she does, tell her I’m bringing my ward—­”

“Your—­what!”

“My—­ward—­”

“Kenny,” came in cold and scandalized tones from the other end, “have you been to bed at all?”