"Do people eat here?" said the dazed Tavia.

"One must eat, be the furnishings ever so luxurious," sang Ned.

Dorothy rushed immediately to the tiny cupboard, and examined the Mother Goose pattern breakfast dishes, while Tavia gazed critically at the numerous mysterious doors leading hither and thither through the apartment.

They gathered together, finally, in the living room, which faced the river. The heavy draperies subdued the strong sunlight.

Mrs. White sighed the happy sigh that betokens rest, as she sank into a Turkish chair. Dorothy and Tavia were not ready to sit down yet-there was too much to explore. From their high place, there above the crowds, and seemingly in the clouds, they could see something akin to human beings moving about everywhere, even, it seemed, out along the river drive. For a brief time no one spoke; then Ned "proverbially" broke the silence.

"Well, Mom," he emitted, "what is it all about? Did you just come into upholstered storage to have new looking gla.s.ses? Or is there a system in this insanity?"

Mrs. White smiled indulgently. Ned was beginning to take an interest in things. He must surmise that her trip to New York was not one of mere pleasure.

The girls, unconsciously discreet, had left the room.

"My dear son," said the lady, now in a soft robe, just rescued from her suit-case, "I am glad to see that you are trying to help me. You know the Court Apartments, the one I hold purposely for you and Nat?" He nodded.

"Well, the agent has been acting queerly. In fact, I have reason to question his honesty. He is constantly refusing to make reports. Says that rents have come down, when everyone else says they have gone up. He also declares some of the tenants are in arrears. Now, if we are to have so much trouble with the investment, we shall have to get rid of it."

The remark was in the note of query. Nat brushed his fingers through his heavy hair.

"Well, Mom," he said impressively, "we must look it over carefully, but I have always heard that New York real estate men-of a certain type-observe the certain and remember the type-are not always to be trusted. I wouldn't ask better sport than going in for detective work on the half-sh.e.l.l. But say, this is some apartment! I suppose I may have it some evening for a little round-up of my New York friends? You know so many of the fellows seem to blow this way."

"Of course you may, Ned. I shall be glad to help you."

"Oh, you couldn't possibly do that, mother," he objected. "There is only one way to let boys have a good time and that is to let them have it. If one interferes it's 'good-night'," and he paused to let the pardonable slang take effect.

"Just as you like, of course," said the mother, without the least hint of offence. "I know I can depend upon you not to-eat the rugs or chairs.

They are only hired, you know."

"Never cared for that sort of food. In fact I don't even like the feel of some of these," and he rubbed his hand over the side of a plush chair.

"Nothing like the home stuffs, Mom."

"You are not disappointed?"

"Oh, no, not that. Only trying to remember what home is like. It kind of upsets one's memory to take a trip and get here. I wonder what the girls are up to? You stay here while I inspect."

Mrs. White was not sorry of the respite. She looked out over the broad drive. It was some years since her husband had taken her to a pretty little apartment in this city. The thought was absorbing. But it was splendid that she had two such fine boys. Yes, she must not complain, for both boys were in many ways like their father, upright to the point of peril, daring to the point of personal risk.

The maid, she who had come in advance from North Birchland, stepped in with the soft tread of the professional nurse to close the doors.

Something must be going on in the kitchenette. Well, let the children play, thought Mrs. White.

Suddenly she heard something like a shriek! Even then she did not move.

If there were danger to any one in the apartment she would soon know it-the old reliable adage-no news is good news, when someone shrieks.

CHAPTER XII HUMAN FREIGHT ON THE DUMMY

Tavia almost fell over Ned. Dorothy grasped the door. The maid ruffled up her nice white ap.r.o.n!

They all scrambled into the living room and there was more, for with them, in fact, in Ned's strong arms, was a child, a boy with blazing cheeks and defiant eyes.

"Look, mother! He came up on the dumb waiter!" said Ned, as soon as he could speak.

"Yes, and I nearly killed him," blurted Tavia. "I thought the place was haunted!"

"On the dumb waiter?" repeated Dorothy.

The maid nodded her head decidedly.

"Why!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. White, sitting up very straight.

"I didn't mean anything," said the boy, reflecting good breeding in choice of language, if not in manner of transportation. "I was just coming up to fly kites."

"But on the dummy!" queried Ned.

"Well, we wouldn't dare come up any other way. This apartment was not rented before and we had to sneak in on the janitor. This is the best lobby for kites," and his eyes danced at the thought.

"But where's the kite?" questioned Ned.

"Talent's got it."

"Talent?" repeated Dorothy.

"Yes, he's the other fellow-the smartest fellow around. His real name-"

he paused to laugh.

"Is what?" begged Tavia, coming over to the little fellow, with no hidden show of admiration.

"It's too silly, but he didn't choose it," apologized the boy. "It's C-l-a-u-d!"

"That's a pretty name," interposed Mrs. White, feeling obliged to say something agreeable.

"But he can't bear it," declared the boy. "My name is worse. Mother brought it from Rome."

"Catacombs?" suggested Tavia, foolishly.

"No," the lad lowered his voice in disgust. "But it's Raphael."

"That was the name of a great painter," said Mrs. White, again feeling how difficult it was to talk to a small and enterprising New York boy.

"Maybe," admitted the little one, "but I have Raffle from the boys, and that's all right. Means going off all the time."

Everyone laughed. Raffle looked uneasily at the door.

"But where's that kite?" questioned Ned.