“Canceled,” says I.  “Anyway, he went off in a hurry.”

“But—­but he-was to have—­” And there she stops.

“I know,” says I.  “Maybe he’ll explain later, though.”

No wonder she was dizzy from it, and it’s quite natural that soon after she felt one of her bad headaches comin’ on.  So Vee and Helma got busy at once.  After they’d tucked her away with the ice-bag and the smellin’-salts, she asked to be let alone; so durin’ the next half hour I had a chance to tell Vee all about Creighton and his career.

“But he did seem so refined!” says Vee.

“Yon got to be,” says I, “to deal in fake antiques.  His mistake was in tacklin’ something genuine”; and I nods towards a picture of Auntie.

“I don’t see how I can ever tell her,” says Vee.

“It would be a shame,” says I.  “Them late romances come so sudden.  Why not just let her press it and put it away?  Clyde will never come back.”

“Just think, Torchy,” says Vee, sort of snugglin’ up.  “If it hadn’t been for you!”

“That’s my aim in life,” says I—­“to prove I’m needed in the fam’ly.”

CHAPTER IV

HOW HAM PASSED THE BUCK

I expect you’ll admit that when Mr. Robert slides out at 11 A.M. and don’t show up again until after three he’s stretchin’ the lunch hour a bit.  But, whatever other failin’s I may have, I believe in bein’ easy with the boss.  So, when he breezes into the private office in the middle of the afternoon, I just gives him the grin, friendly and indulgent like.

“Well, Torchy,” he calls over to me, “have I missed anyone?”

“Depends on how it strikes you,” says I.  “Mr. Hamilton Adams has near burned out the switchboard tryin’ to get you on the ’phone.  Called up four times.”

“Ham, eh?” says he, shruggin’ his shoulders careless.  “Then I can hardly say I regret being late.  I trust he left no message.”

“This ain’t your lucky day,” says I.  “He did.  Wants to see you very special.  Wants you to look him up.”

“At the club, I suppose?” says Mr. Robert.

“No, at his rooms,” says I.

“The deuce he does!” says Mr. Robert.  “Why doesn’t he come here if it’s so urgent?”

“He didn’t say exactly,” says I, “but from hints he dropped I take it he can’t get out.  Sick, maybe.”

“Humph!” says Mr. Robert, rubbin’ his chin thoughtful.  “If that is the case—­” Then he stops and stares puzzled into the front of the roll-top, where the noon mail is sorted and stacked in the wire baskets.

I don’t hear anything more from him for two or three minutes, when he signals me over and pulls up a chair.

“Ah—­er—­about Ham Adams, now,” he begins.

“Say, Mr. Robert,” says I, “you ain’t never goin’ to wish him onto me, are you?  Why, him and me wouldn’t get along a little bit.”