He looked at the restaurateur in surprise.

“The lady said you were to get the grub and put it in this basket,” said the latter.

“The lady?” inquired Bleak.

“The dame in the car,” said Isidor, owner of the Busy Wasp Lunchroom.

Bleak obeyed orders.  He filled the basket with tongue sandwiches and a huge platter of shrimp salad, paid the check, and carried the burden to the door of the motor.

At the wheel sat a damsel of extraordinary beauty.  The massive proportions of the enormous car only accentuated the perfection of her streamline figure.  Her chassis was admirable; she was upholstered in a sports suit of fawn-colored whipcord; and her sherry-brown eyes were unmodified by any dimming devices.  Before Bleak could say anything she cried eagerly, “Get in, Mr. Bleak!  I’ve been looking for you everywhere.  What a happy moment this is!”

Bleak handed in the basket.  “Quimbleton—­” he began.

“I know,” she said.  “I’m taking you to him.  Poor fellow, he is in great peril.  Get in, please.”

By the time Bleak was in the seat beside her, the car was already in motion.

“You have your passport?” she said, steering through the tangled traffic.

“Yes,” he said.  He could not help stealing a sidelong glance at this bewitching creature.  Her dainty and vivacious face, just now a trifle sunburnt, was fixed resolutely upon the vehicles ahead.  On the rim of the big steering wheel her small gloved hands gave an impression of great capability.  Bleak thought that her profile seemed oddly familiar.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” he said.

“Very possibly.  Your newspaper printed my picture the other day, with some rather uncomplimentary remarks.”

Bleak was nonplussed.

“Very stupid of me,” he said, “but I don’t seem to recall—­”

“I am Miss Chuff,” she said calmly.

The editor’s brain staggered.

“Miss Theodolinda Chuff?” he said, in amazement.  He recalled some satirical editorials the Balloon had printed concerning the activities of the Chuffs, and wondered if he were being kidnaped for court-martial by the Pan-Antis.  Evidently the use of Quimbleton’s name had been a ruse.

“It was unfair of you to make use of Quimbleton’s name to get me into your hands,” he said angrily.

Miss Chuff turned a momentary gaze of amusement upon him, as they passed a large tractor drawing several truckloads of gooseberry plants.

“You don’t understand,” she said demurely.  “You may remember that Mr. Quimbleton’s card gave his name as associate director of the Happiness Corporation?”

“Yes,” said Bleak.

“I am the Director,” she said.

“You?  But how can that be?  Why, your father—­”

“That’s just why.  Any one who had to live with Father would be sure to take the opposite side.  He’s a Pan-Anti.  I’m a Pan-Pro.  Those poems I have written for him were merely a form of camouflage.  Besides, they were so absurd they were sure to do harm to the cause.  That’s why I wrote them.  I’ll explain it all to you a little later.”