“By George!” says he.  “I’m sure Warrie would feel badly if he missed seeing anyone from Sand Spur.  You must let me know where you’re stopping.  I’ll send him word.”

“Wouldn’t do a bit of good in the world,” says Valentina, “for Ah’m not stopping anywhere.  You see, Ah come up with pop on a lumber-schooner, and we’ll be headed out past Sandy Hook by sunrise.”

“Can’t we locate Warrie to-night some way?” I asks.

Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders.

“We can,” says he.  “I happen to know where he is at this moment.”  Then he whispers, “Dining at the Tarleton; Miss Prentice is with him.”

“Gee!” says I.

Maybe you’ve seen pictures of this young society queen that’s annexed Warrie?  I had.  That’s why I took such a long breath before askin’, “Would you take a chance?”

“Eh?” says Mr. Robert.

Then, as the idea strikes in, he develops that eye twinkle.

“Why,” he goes on, “I see no serious objection.  Surely she might spare him for five minutes.  Yes, of course.  You may have my taxi if you’ll drop me at the club first.  Let’s do it.”

So that’s how I come to be interviewin’ a chesty head waiter at the Tarleton twenty minutes later.  From where I stood I could see Warrie Mason well enough, but I has to write out a message and have it taken in.  Him and Miss Prentice are havin’ dinner all by themselves, and they sure make a swell-lookin’ pair.  Warrie he looks classy in anything, but in evenin’ clothes he’s a reg’lar young grand duke; while Miss Prentice—­well, she’s one of these soft, pouty-lipped, droopy-eyed charmers, the kind you see bein’ crushed against some manly shirt bosom on the magazine covers.  I watches her nod careless as Warrie explains what’s in the note, and the next minute he’s out givin’ me the cordial hail.

“What!” says he.  “A friend from Sand Spur?  By Jove!  It—­it can’t be Valentina, can it?”

“She’s the one,” says I.  “Goin’ back early in the mornin’ too, so I didn’t know but you might like to step out and—­”

“Step out nothing!” says he.  “Bring her in.  There’s only Gladys, and we’re just starting dinner.  I want you both to join us.”

“Wha-a-at?” I gasps.  “Lug Valentina—­in there!”

“Most certainly,” says he.

“But see here, you big boob,” says I, “have you got any idea how she’s costumed?”

He laughs.  “Let’s see,” he goes on, “it ought to be a dark blue print with red polka dots.  That used to be her Sunday dress.”

“You win,” says I.  “The styles in Sand Spur ain’t changed any.  But this is Fifth Avenue, remember.”

“Torchy,” says he, droppin’ one of his big paws on my shoulder, “what I shall always remember about Valentina Tozier is this:  that when she picked me up out on the Gulf I was in a bad way.  I’d been rolling around in a rummy old motor-boat for hours and hours, with a stalled engine, and a norther howling down the coast.  Came sailing out in a crazy catboat, Valentina did, and towed me in.  She knew nothing about who I was, mind you, but that made no difference to her or Pop Tozier.  From then on there wasn’t anything in Sand Spur too good for me.  And now—­but where is she?”