“Raymond, in a year or two, married a woman who lived only long enough to produce this man upon whose trail we’re scouting.  This Kenneth was a measly little offspring and his mother’s people undertook to give him a chance to live.  He picked up and he and his father became pals—­Hannah rooted out a picture of them riding horseback.  Then the father was thrown from his horse and killed right before the eyes of the boy, and that put him back years—­he barely escaped.  I don’t believe he would have, from accounts, if Mrs. Tweksbury hadn’t butted in at that point and made it a matter of honour to the boy to—­to—­carry on!

“Well, once he mounted that horse he rode it as he did all others—­hard and grim.  He never played in all his life.  He’s been making good.  Society he loathes; women do not exist for him, outside of Mrs. Tweksbury.  I bet he knows her past and is paying back for his dad—­he’s like that.

“Well, when I’d got everything Hannah had in her safe I had a burning desire to have a look at Mr. Kenneth Raymond myself.  So this afternoon I went to his office——­”

“Pat!” cried Joan.  “Oh!  Pat, how could you?”

“Easiest thing in the world, my lamb.  You see, the chance of viewing a human being—­with one fortune in his pocket and another coming to him when Mrs. Tweksbury lets go—­actually on a job holding it down like grim death—­was a sight to gladden the heart of a tramp like me.  I sallied down to Wall Street and had some fun.

“I found his building without a moment’s delay and I casually asked the elevator boy where Mr. Raymond’s office was, and the little chap grew effusive—­either Mr. Raymond is lavish with tips, or the human touch, for his goings and comings are meat to that kid.

“He told me I had better hustle, for at four-thirty every day Mr. Raymond beat it!  The boy was an artist in word-painting.  He described my man as a real toff, none of your little yappers.  He’s going to haul in the pile and playing honest-to-God—­fair, too!”

Joan burst out laughing.  Patricia mimicked the ribald manner of the boy deliciously.

Patricia nodded her thanks and went on: 

“Well, I hung around his corridor for ten minutes, Joan; and at four-thirty exactly his door opened and I had timed myself so perfectly that he tumbled over me and nearly knocked me down.

“He has better manners than you might expect from such a deadly prompt person.  He steadied me and looked positively concerned when he realized what a pretty, helpless little thing I am!” Patricia gave a wicked wink and lighted her fifth cigarette.

“I told him I was looking for ——­ and I made up a preposterous name; and he puckered his lofty brow and said he couldn’t recall any such name in the building, and then I told him I had about concluded that I had the wrong address, and he offered to look the name up for me, but I sighed and said that it was too late.  My man always left his office at three-forty-five and that I would have to come again.