he’s colored up as bright as a bottle of maraschino cherries.  It’s the sort of sunburn a sandy complexion gets on; but not in a month or a year.  You know?  One of these blond Eskimo tints, that seems to go clear through the skin.  How he could get it in a wheel chair, though, I couldn’t figure out.  Anyway, there wasn’t time.  Quick as he sees me he throws in his reverse gear and comes to a stop between the portieres.

“Well, young man,” he raps out sharp and snappy, “who the particular blazes are you?”

But, say, I’ve met too many peevish old parties to let a little jab like that tie up my tongue.

“Me?” says I, settin’ back easy in the armchair.  “Oh, I’m a buyer representin’ a private collector.”

“Buyer of what?” says he.

“Art,” says I.  “Just picked up a small lot,—­that one with the Albany night boat in it, you know.”

He stares like he thought I was batty, and then rolls his chair over closer.  “Do I understand,” says he, “that you have been buying a picture—­here?”

“Sure,” says I.  “Say, ain’t you on yet, and you right in the house?  Well, you ought to get next.”

“I mean to,” says he.  “Bladen’s stuff, I suppose?”

“Uh-huh,” says I.  “And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger; that is, fine feelin’, darin’ technic, all that sort of dope.”

“I see,” says he, noddin’ his head.  “Holding a sale, is he?  On one of the upper floors?”

“Top,” says I.  “Quite a classy little studio joint he’s made up there.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” says the old boy, snappin’ his eyes.  “Well, of all the confounded—­er—­young man, ring that bell!”

Say, how was I goin’ to know?  I was beginnin’ to suspect that this chatty streak of mine wa’n’t goin’ to turn out lucky for someone; but it’s gone too far to hedge.  I pushes the button, and in comes the butler.

“Tupper,” says the old man, glarin’ at him shrewd, “you know where the top-floor studio is, don’t you?”

“Ye-e-es, Sir,” says Tapper, almost chokin’ over it.

“You’ll find Mr. and Mrs. Bladen there,” goes on old Grouchy.  “Ask them to step down here for a moment at once.”

Listened sort of mussy from where I sat, and I wa’n’t findin’ the armchair quite so comf’table.  “Guess I’ll be loafin’ along,” says I, casual.

“You’ll stay just where you are for the present!” says he, wheelin’ himself across the door-way.

“Oh, well, if you insist,” says I.

He did.  And for two minutes there I listens to the clock tick and watches the old sport’s white whiskers grow bristly.  Then comes the Bladens.  He waves ’em to a parade rest opposite me.

“What is it, Uncle Jeff?” says Mrs. Bladen, sort of anxious.  And with that I begins to piece out the puzzle.  This was Uncle Jeff, eh, the one with the bank account?

“So,” he explodes, like openin’ a bottle of root beer, “you’ve gone back to your paint daubing, have you?  And you’re actually trying to sell your namby-pamby stuff on my top floor?  Come now, Edith, let’s hear you squirm out of that!”