Egbert laughs; but he takes the advice.

"Huh!" says I to Pyramid. "I expect that's your notion of making a funny play, eh!"

"I'm no humorist, Shorty," says he.

"Then what's the idea?" says I. "What do you mean?"

"I never mean anything but cold, straight business," says he. "That's the only game worth playing."

"So?" says I. "Then here's where you got let in bad with your eyes open.

You heard him tell how useless he was?"

"I did," says Pyramid; "but I always do my own appraising when I hire men. I anticipate finding Mr. Marston somewhat useful."

And say, that's all I can get out of Pyramid on the subject; for when it comes to business, he's about as chatty over his plans as a hard shell clam on the suffragette question. I've known him to make some freak plans; but this move of pickin' out a yellow one like Egbert and rewardin' him as if he was a Carnegie medal winner beat anything he'd ever sprung yet.

It's no bluff, either. I hears of this Marston gent sportin' around at the clubs, and it wa'n't until I accident'lly run across an item on the Wall Street page that I gets any more details. He shows up, if you please, as secretary of the Consolidated Holding Company that there's been so much talk about. I asks Pinckney what kind of an outfit that was; but he don't know.

"Huh!" says I. "All I'd feel safe in givin' Egbert to hold for me would be one end of the Brooklyn Bridge."

"I don't care what he holds," says Pinckney, "if he will stay away from our little governess. She's a treasure."

Seems Mrs. Marston had been doin' some great tricks with the twins, not only keepin' 'em from marrin' the furniture, but teachin' 'em all kinds of knowledge and improvin' their table manners, until it was almost safe to have 'em down to luncheon now and then.

But her life was being made miser'ble by the prospect of havin' Egbert show up any day and create a row. She confided the whole tale to Sadie, how she was through with Marston for good, but didn't dare tell him so, and how she sent him most of her salary to keep him away.

"The loafer!" says I. "And think of the chance I had at him there in the studio! Hanged if I don't get even with Pyramid for that, though!"

But I didn't. Mr. Gordon's been too busy this season to show up for any trainin', and it was only here the other day that I runs across him in the street.

"Well," says I, "how's that work scornin' pet of yours gettin' on these days?"

"Marston?" says he. "Why, haven't you heard? Mr. Marston is away on a vacation."

"Vacation!" says I. "He needs it, he does!"

"The company thought so," says Pyramid. "They gave him six months' leave with pay. He's hunting reindeer or musk ox somewhere up in British Columbia."

"Him a hunter?" says I. "G'wan!"

Pyramid grins. "He did develop a liking for the wilderness rather suddenly," says he; "but that is where he is now. In fact, I shouldn't be surprised if he stayed up there for a year or more."

"What's the joke?" says I, catchin' a flicker in them puffy eyes of Pyramid's.

"Why, just this," says he. "Mr. Marston, you know, is secretary of the Consolidated Holding Company."

"Yes, I read about that," says I. "What then?"

"It pains me to state," says Mr. Gordon, "that in his capacity of secretary Mr. Marston seems to have sanctioned transactions which violate the Interstate Commerce act."

"Ah-ha!" says I. "Turned crooked on you, did he?"

"We are not sure as yet," says Pyramid. "The federal authorities are anxious to settle that point by examining certain files which appear to be missing. They even asked me about them. Perhaps you didn't notice, Shorty, that I was cross-examined for five hours, one day last week."

"I don't read them muck rakin' articles," says I.

"Quite right," says Pyramid. "Well, I couldn't explain; for, as their own enterprising detectives discovered, when Mr. Marston boarded the Montreal Express his baggage included a trunk and two large cases. Odd of him to take shipping files on a hunting trip, wasn't it?" and Pyramid tips me the slow wink.

I'm more or less of a thickhead when it comes to flossy finance; but I've seen enough plain flimflam games to know a few things. And the wink clinched it. "Mr. Gordon," says I, "for a Mr. Smooth you've got a greased pig in the warthog class. But suppose Egbert gets sick of the woods and hikes himself back? What then?"

"Jail," says Pyramid, shruggin' his sable collar up around his ears.

"That would be rather deplorable too. Bright young man, Marston, in many ways, and peculiarly adapted for----"

"Yes, I know the part," says I. "They gen'rally spells it g-o-a-t."

CHAPTER XII

MRS. TRUCKLES' BROAD JUMP

And do you imagine Kitty Marston settles down to a life job after that?

Not her. At the very next pay day she hands in her two weeks' notice, and when they pin her right down to facts she admits weepy that she means to start out lookin' for Egbert. Now wouldn't that crust you?

Course, the sequel to that is another governess hunt which winds up with Madame Roulaire. And say, talk about your queer cases----But you might as well have the details.

You see, until Aunt Martha arrived on the scene this Madame Roulaire business was only a fam'ly joke over to Pinckney's, with all of us in on it more or less. But Aunt Martha ain't been there more'n three or four days before she's dug up mystery and scandal and tragedy enough for another one of them French dope dramas.

"In my opinion," says she, "that woman is hiding some dreadful secret!"

But Mrs. Pinckney only smiles in that calm, placid way of hers. You know how easy she took things when she was Miss Geraldine and Pinckney found her on the steamer in charge of the twins that had been willed to him?

Well, she ain't changed a bit; and, with Pinckney such a brilliant member of the Don't Worry Fraternity, whatever frettin' goes on in that house has to be done by volunteers.

Aunt Martha acts like she was wise to this; for she starts right in to make up for lost opportunities, and when she spots this freaky lookin'

governess she immediately begins scoutin' for trouble. Suspicions? She delivers a fresh lot after every meal!

"Humph!" says she. "Madame Roulaire, indeed! Well, I must say, she looks as little like a Frenchwoman as any person I ever saw! How long have you had her, Geraldine? What, only two months? Did she bring written references, and did you investigate them carefully?"

She wouldn't let up, either, until she'd been assured that Madame Roulaire had come from service in an English fam'ly, and that they'd written on crested notepaper indorsin' her in every point, giving her whole hist'ry from childhood up.

"But she hasn't the slightest French accent," insists Aunt Martha.

"I know," says Mrs. Pinckney. "She lived in England from the time she was sixteen, and of course twenty years away from one's----"

"Does she claim to be only thirty-six?" exclaims Aunt Martha. "Why, she's fifty if she's a day! Besides, I don't like that snaky way she has of watching everyone."