“I hope so,” says the Professor.

“Do you know,” says Myra, liftin’ her glass and glancin’ kittenish over the brim at him, “I mean to try to live up to this day.  I don’t mind saying, though, that for a while it’s going to be an awful strain.”

“Anyway,” says I to Vee, after it’s all over and the Professor has finally said good night, “she’s got a good start.”

“Yes,” says Vee, “and perhaps Lester will help some.  I didn’t quite look for that.  It’s been fun, though, hasn’t it?”

“For an indoor sport,” says I, “givin’ a Myra day is a lot merrier than it sounds.  It beats bein’ good to yourself nine up and six to go.”

CHAPTER IX

REPORTING BLANK ON RUPERT

And yet, I’ve had people ask me if this private sec. job didn’t get sort of monotonous!  Does it?  Say, listen a while!

I was breezin’ through the arcade here the other noon, about twenty minutes behind my lunch schedule, when someone backs away from the marble wall tablets the agents have erected in honor of them firms that keep their rent paid.  Some perfect stranger it is, who does the reverse goose step so unexpected that there’s no duckin’ a collision.  Quite a substantial party he is, too, and where my nose connects with his shoulder he’s built about as solid as a concrete pillar.

“Say,” I remarks, when the aurora borealis has faded out and I can see straight again, “if you’re goin’ to carom around that way in public, you ought to wear pads.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says he.  “I didn’t mean to be so awkward.  Hope you’re not hurt, sir.”

Then I did do some gawpin’.  For who’d ever expect a big, rough-finished husk like that, would have such a soft, ladylike voice concealed about him?  And the “sir” was real soothin’.

“It’s all right,” says I.  “Guess I ain’t disabled for life.  Next time, though, I’ll be particular to walk around.”

“But really,” he goes on, “I—­I’m not here regularly.  I was just trying to find a name—­a Mr. Robert Ellins.”

“Eh?” says I.  “Lookin’ for Mr. Robert, are you?”

“Then you know him?” he asks eager.

“Ought to,” says I.  “He’s my boss.  Corrugated Trust is what you should have looked under.”

“Ah, yes; I remember now,” says he.  “Corrugated Trust—­that’s the part I’d forgotten.  Then perhaps you can tell me just where—­”

“I could,” says I, “but it wouldn’t do you a bit of good.  He’s got appointments up to 1:15.  After that he’ll be taking two hours off for luncheon—­if he comes back at all.  Better make a date for to-morrow or next day.”

The solid gent looks disappointed.

“I had hoped I might find him to-day,” says he.  “It—­it’s rather important.”

At which I sizes him up a little closer.  Sort of a carrot blond, this gent is, with close-cropped pale red hair, about the ruddiest neck you ever saw off a turkey gobbler, and a face that’s so freckled it looks crowded.  The double-breasted blue serge coat and the blue flannel shirt with the black sailor tie gives me a hunch, though.  Maybe he’s one of Mr. Robert’s yacht captains.