“Another lobbyist been squealin’?” says I.

“No, no!” says he.  “This is a personal affair, and—­well, it’s embarrassing, to say the least.”

“Another lobbyist been squealin’?” says I.

“It’s about Roberta,” says he.

“What—­again?” says I.  “But I thought they was travelin’ abroad?”

“I wish they were,” says he; “but they’re not.  At the last moment, it seems, Robbie decided she didn’t care for a foreign trip,—­too late in the season, and she didn’t want to be going over just when everyone was coming back, you know.  So they went up to Thundercaps instead.”

“Sounds stormy,” says I.

“You’re quite right,” says he.  “But it’s a little gem of a place that young Talbot’s father built up in the Adirondacks.  I was there once.  It’s right on top of a mountain.  And that’s where they are now, miles from anywhere or anybody.”

“And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect,” says I.

“Humph!” says he, tossin’ the brass paper knife reckless onto the polished mahogany desk top.  “They ought to be, I will admit; but—­oh, hang it all, if you’re to be of any use in this beastly affair, I suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth!  They are not spooning.  Robbie is very unhappy.  She—­she’s being abused.”

“Well, what do you know!” says I.  “You don’t mean he’s begun draggin’ her around by the hair, or——­”

“Don’t!” says Mr. Robert, bunchin’ his fists nervous.  “I can’t tell.  Robbie hasn’t gone into that.  But she has written her mother that she is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is unbearable.  The young whelp!  If I could only get my hands on him for five minutes!  But, blast it all! that’s just what I mustn’t do until—­until I’m sure.  I can’t trust myself to go.  That is why I must send you, young man.”

“Eh?” says I, starin’.  “Me?  Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn’t stand any show at all mixin’ it with a young husk like him.  Why, after the first poke I’d be——­”

“You misunderstand,” says he.  “That poke part I can attend to very well myself.  But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I should go up there now, feeling as I do, I—­well, I might not be a very patient investigator.  You see, don’t you?”

“Might blow a gasket, eh?” says I.  “And you want me to go up and scout around.  But what if I’m caught at it—­am I peddlin’ soap, or what?”

“A plausible errand is just what I’ve been trying to invent,” says he.  “Can you suggest anything?”

“Why,” says I, “I might go disguised as a lone bandit who’d robbed a train and was——­”

“Too theatrical,” objects Mr. Robert.

“Or a guy come to test the gas meter,” I goes on.

“Nonsense!” says he.  “No gas meters up there.  Forget the disguise.  They both know you, remember.”

“Oh, well,” says I, “if I can’t wear a wig, then I expect I’ll have to go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,—­a five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or——­”