“I thought that sort of thing came in your department.  Isn’t it the butler’s job to supply drinks to the nobility and gentry?  Well, it doesn’t matter.  It is now distributed over the neighbouring soil, thus removing a powerful temptation from your path.  You’re better without it.”  He looked at his watch.  “Well, it ought to be all right now.”  He went to the window.  “There’s an automobile down there.  I suppose it’s Jerry.  I told him to be outside at one sharp and it’s nearly half-past.  I think you might be starting, dad.  Oh, by the way, you had better tell Ogden that you represent a gentleman of the name of Buck Maginnis.  It was Buck who got away with him last time, and a firm friendship seems to-have sprung up between them.  There’s nothing like coming with a good introduction.”

Mr. Crocker took a final survey of himself in the mirror.

“Gee I I’d hate to meet myself on a lonely road!”

He opened the door, and stood for a moment listening.

From somewhere down the passage came the murmur of a muffled snore.

“Third door on the left,” said Jimmy.  “Three—­count ’em!—­three.  Don’t go getting mixed.”

Mr. Crocker slid into the outer darkness like a stout ghost, and Jimmy closed the door gently behind him.

Having launched his indulgent parent safely on a career of crime, Jimmy switched off the light and returned to the window.  Leaning out, he gave himself up for a moment to sentimental musings.  The night was very still.  Through the trees which flanked the house the dimmed headlights of what was presumably Jerry Mitchell’s hired car shone faintly like enlarged fire-flies.  A boat of some description was tooting reflectively far down the river.  Such was the seductive influence of the time and the scene that Jimmy might have remained there indefinitely, weaving dreams, had he not been under the necessity of making his way down to the library.  It was his task to close the French windows after his father and Ogden had passed through, and he proposed to remain hid in the gallery there until the time came for him to do this.  It was imperative that he avoid being seen by Ogden.

Locking his door behind him, he went downstairs.  There were no signs of life in the house.  Everything was still.  He found the staircase leading to the gallery without having to switch on the lights.

It was dusty in the gallery, and a smell of old leather enveloped him.  He hoped his father would not be long.  He lowered himself cautiously to the floor, and, resting his head against a convenient shelf, began to wonder how the interview between Chicago Ed. and his prey was progressing.

* * * * *