“Yes,” says Warrie.

“Same to you,” says Valentina.  “Good-by.”

They shook hands once more—­sort of a long, lingerin’ shake, with their eyes steady to each other; and then—­well, then I steers Valentina out past the grinnin’ cloak-room boys and stows her in the taxi.  She didn’t have much to say on the way down.  Nor I. And, take it from me, it’s some ride from the Tarleton down to Pier 9, East River.

First thing next morning Mr. Robert wants to know how the reunion passed off, and he listens bug-eyed as I describes the way we rung in on the dinner-party with Gladys.

“The deuce you did!” says he.  “Just like Warrie to do that, though.  But, if I know Miss Prentice at all, she will pay him back for that little prank.”

“Now you’ve said something!” says I.

“And Valentina,” he adds reflectively, “is on her way back to Sand Spur, is she?”

“I expect that’s where she belongs,” says I; “and yet—­”

“Well, yet what?” demands Mr. Robert, sort of quizzin’.

“I was only thinkin’,” says I, “that if the cards could have been shuffled different, with Gladys startin’ in Sand Spur and Valentina on the Avenue, Warrie might not have so many yawns comin’ to him across the dinner-table.  But then, maybe Elmer of the Swamp deserves some lucky breaks.  Who knows?”

CHAPTER VI

A BALANCE FOR THE BOSS

You see, I was openin’ the mornin’ mail.  Hope you get that part.  Not that I want to seem chesty over it.  Just goes to show, that’s all.  For, of the whole force here at the General offices, there’s just three of us can carve up the mornin’ mail without gettin’ fired for it.  And the other two are Old Hickory and Mr. Robert.

H-m-m-m!  Business of lookin’ important.  That’s what it is to be a private sec.  But, between you and me, this slicin’ and sortin’ envelopes ain’t such thrillin’ work; mostly routine stuff—­reports of department heads, daily statements from brokers, and so on.  Now and then, though, you run across something rich.  This was one of the times.

I was ’most through the pile when I comes to this pale pink affair with a heavy wax seal on the back.  Perfumed, too, like lilacs.  First off I thought it must be private, and I held the letter stabber in the air while I took a closer look.  No.  It’s addressed just to the Corrugated Trust.  So rip she goes.  After I’d read it through twice I grins and puts it one side.  When Mr. Robert blows in I hands the pink one to him first.

“We’re discovered,” says I.  “Here’s someone that hints polite how we’re a bunch of strong-arms organized to rob the widow and orphan of their daily bread.”

Mr. Robert takes one sniff, then holds it at arm’s length while he runs it through.  Gets a chuckle out of him, too.

“It’s rather evident,” says he, “that Mrs. Theodore Bayly Bagstock doesn’t approve of us at all—­though just why is not quite clear.”