“O God—­and I got a cramp in my back, and my neck’s gone to sleep!” groaned Old Jimmie, leaning forward on his cane.  “Daughter, dear”—­ plaintively to Maggie—­“what is the crazy gentleman doing to me?”

“It’s an awful smear, father.”  Maggie spoke slightingly, but with a tone of doubt.  It was not the sort of picture that eighteen has been taught to like—­yet the picture did possess an intangible something that provoked doubt as to its quality.  “You sure do look one old burglar!”

“Not a cheap burglar?”—­hopefully.

“Naw!” exploded the man at the easel in his big voice, first taking the brushes from his mouth.  “You’re a swell-looking old pirate!—­ready to loot the sub-treasury and then scuttle the old craft with all hands on board!  A breathing, speaking, robbing likeness!”

“Maggie’s right, and Nuts’s right,” put in Barney Palmer.  “It’s sure a rotten picture, and then again it sure looks like you, Jimmie.”

The smartly dressed Barney—­Barney could not keep away from Broadway tailors and haberdashers with their extravagant designs and color schemes—­dismissed the insignificant matter of the portrait, and resumed the really important matter which had brought him to her.

“Are you certain, Maggie, that the Duchess hasn’t heard from Larry?”

“If she has, she hasn’t mentioned it.  But why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“I did, but she wouldn’t say a thing.  You can’t get a word out of the Duchess with a jimmy, unless she wants to talk—­and she never wants to talk.”  He turned his sharp, narrowly set eyes upon the lean old man.  “It’s got me guessing, Jimmie.  Larry was due out of Sing Sing yesterday, and we haven’t had a peep from him, and though she won’t talk I’m sure he hasn’t been here to see his grandmother.”

“Sure is funny,” agreed Old Jimmie.  “But mebbe Larry has broke straight into a fresh game and is playing a lone hand.  He’s a quick worker, Larry is—­and he’s got nerve.”

“Well, whatever’s keeping him we’re tied up till Larry comes.”  Barney turned back to Maggie.  “I say, sister, how about robing yourself in your raiment of joy and coming with yours truly to a palace of jazz, there to dine and show the populace what real dancing is?”

“Can’t, Barney.  Mr. Hunt”—­the name given the painter at his original christening—­“asked the Duchess and me to have dinner up here.  He’s to cook it himself.”

“For your sake I hope he cooks better than he paints.”  And sliding down in his chair until he rested upon a more comfortable vertebra, the elegant Barney lit a monogrammed cigarette, and with idle patience swung his bamboo stick.

“You’re half an hour late, Maggie,” Hunt began at her again in his rumbling voice.  “Can’t stand for such a waste of my time!”

“How about my time?” retorted Maggie, who indeed had a grievance.  “I was supposed to have the day off, but instead I had to carry that tray of cigarettes around till the last person in the Ritzmore had finished lunch.  Anyhow,” she added, “I don’t see that your time’s worth so much when you spend it on such painty messes as these.”