“For Peggy’s sake,” I observed.

“Of course, yes, for Peggy’s sake.  I am to walk across this fantastic stage in the inglorious capacity of a philanderer.”

“That is precisely it,” I admitted.  “I want you to philander with Aunt Elizabeth for two days, one day; two hours, one hour; just long enough, only long enough to bring that fool boy to his senses.”

“If I had suspected the nature of the purpose I am to serve in this complication”—­began the doctor, without a smile.  “I trusted your judgment, Mrs. Price, and good sense—­I have never known either to fail before.  However,” he added, manfully, “I am in for it now, and I would do more disagreeable things than this for Peggy’s sake.  But perhaps,” he suggested, grimly, “we sha’n’t find either of them.”

He retired from the subject obviously, if gracefully, and began to play with the poodle that had the Pullman permit.  I happen to know that if there is any species of dog the doctor does not love it is a poodle, with or without a permit.  The lady with three chins asked me if my husband were fond of dogs—­I think she said, so fond as that.  She glanced at the girl whom the poodle owned.

I don’t know why it should be a surprise to me, but it was; that the chin lady and the poodle girl have both registered at “The Sphinx.”

Directly after luncheon, for I could not afford to lose a minute, I went to Mrs. Chataway’s; the agreement being that the doctor should follow me in an absent-minded way a little later.  But there was a blockade on the way, and I wasn’t on time.  What I took to be Mrs. Chataway herself admitted me with undisguised hesitation.

Miss Talbert, she said, was not at home; that is—­no, she was not home.  She explained that a great many people had been asking for Miss Talbert; there were two in the parlor now.

When I demanded, “Two what?” she replied, in a breathless tone, “Two gentlemen,” and ushered me into that old-fashioned architectural effort known to early New York as a front and back parlor.

One of the gentlemen, as I expected, proved to be Dr. Denbigh.  The other was flatly and unmistakably Charles Edward.  The doctor offered to excuse himself, but I took Charles Edward into the back parlor, and I made so bold as to draw the folding-doors.  I felt that the occasion justified worse than this.

The colloquy between myself and Charles Edward was brief and pointed.  He began by saying, “You here!  What a mess!—­”

My conviction is that he saved himself just in time from Messymaria.

“Have you found him?” I propounded.

“No.”

“Haven’t seen him?”

“I didn’t say I hadn’t seen him.”

“What did he say?” I insisted.

“Not very much.  It was in the Park.”

“In the park?  Not very much?  How could you let him go?”

“I didn’t let him go,” drawled Charles Edward.  “He invited me to dinner.  A man can’t ask a fellow what his intentions are to a man’s sister in a park.  I hadn’t said very much up to that point; he did most of the talking.  I thought I would put it off till we got round to the cigars.”