My interpretation is, that there is no man on her horizon just now except Harry Goward, and I won’t do her the injustice to believe that she wouldn’t be thankful to be rid of him just for her own sake; to say nothing of Peggy’s.

Aunt Elizabeth, I repeat, needs a new man.  If Dr. Denbigh is willing to fill this role for a few days (of course I must be perfectly frank with him about it) the effect upon Harry Goward will be instantaneous.  His disillusion will be complete; his return to Peggy in a state of abject humiliation will be assured.  I mean, assuming that the fellow is capable of manly feeling, and that Peggy has aroused it.  That, of course, remains for me to find out.

How I am to fish Harry Goward out of the ocean of New York city doesn’t trouble me in the least.  Given Aunt Elizabeth, he will complete the equation.  If Mrs. Chataway should fail me—­But I won’t suppose that Mrs. Chataway will fail.  I must be sure and explain to Tom about Dr. Denbigh.

“The Sphinx,” New York, 10 P.M.—­I arrived—­that is to say, we arrived in this town at ten minutes past one o’clock, almost ten hours ago.  Dr. Denbigh has gone somewhere—­and that reminds me that I forgot to ask him where.  I never thought of it until this minute, but it has just occurred to me that it may be quite as well from an ignorant point of view that “The Sphinx” excludes mere man from its portals.

He was good to me on the train, very good indeed.  I can’t deny that he flushed a little when I told him frankly what I wanted of him.  At first I thought that he was going to be angry.  Then I saw the corners of his mustache twitch.  Then our sense of humor got the better of us, and then I laughed, and then he laughed, and I felt that the crisis was passed.  I explained to him while we were in the Pullman car, as well as I could without being overheard by a fat lady with three chins, and a girl with a permit for a pet poodle, what it was that I wanted of him.  I related the story of Peggy’s misfortune—­in confidence, of course; and explained the part he was expected to play—­confidentially, of course; in fact, I laid my plot before him from beginning to end.

“If the boy doesn’t love her, you see,” I suggested, “the sooner we know it the better.  She must break it off, if her heart is broken in the process.  If he does love her—­my private opinion is he thinks he does—­I won’t have Peggy’s whole future wrecked by one of Aunt Elizabeth’s flirtations.  The reef is too small for the catastrophe.  I shall find Aunt Elizabeth.  Oh yes, I shall find Aunt Elizabeth!  I have no more doubt of that than I have that Matilda is putting too much onion in the croquettes for Tom this blessed minute.  If I find her I shall find the boy; but what good is that going to do me, if I find either of them or both of them, if we can’t disillusionize the boy?”

“In a word,” interrupted the doctor, rather tartly, “all you want of me is to walk across the troubled stage—­”