"Not that I don't believe there was something in what he said," Sadie explains to me afterwards; "only--only----"

"Only he was a false alarm, eh?" says I. "Well, Violet wa'n't that kind, anyway."

"Pooh!" says she. "I suppose you'll brag about Violet for the rest of your life."

Can you keep 'em guessin' long, when it comes to things of that kind? Not if they're like Sadie.

CHAPTER XV

THE CASE OF THE TISCOTTS

What I had on the slate for this part'cular afternoon was a brisk walk up Broadway as far as the gasoline district and a little soothin'

conversation with Mr. Cecil Slattery about the new roadster he's tryin'

to Paladino me into placin' my order for. I'd just washed up and was in the gym. giving my coat a few licks with the whisk broom, when Swifty Joe comes tiptoein' in, taps me on the shoulder, and points solemn into the front office.

"That's right," says I, "break it to me gentle."

"Get into it quick!" says he, grabbin' the coat.

"Eh?" says I. "Fire, police, or what?"

"S-s-sh!" says he. "Lady to see you."

"What kind," says I, "perfect, or just plain lady? And what's her name?"

"Ahr-r-r chee!" he whispers, hoarse and stagy. "Didn't I tell you it was a lady? Get a move on!" and he lifts me into the sleeves and yanks away the whisk broom.

"See here, Swifty," says I, "if this is another of them hot air demonstrators, or a book agent, there'll be trouble comin' your way in bunches! Remember, now!"

Here was once, though, when Swifty hadn't made any mistake. Not that he shows such wonderful intelligence in this case. With her wearin' all them expensive furs, and the cute little English footman standin' up straight in his yellow topped boots over by the door, who wouldn't have known she was a real lady?

She's got up all in black, not exactly a mournin' costume, but one of these real broadcloth regalias, plain but classy. She's a tall, slim party, and from the three-quarters' view I gets against the light I should guess she was goin' on thirty or a little past it. All she's armed with is a roll of paper, and as I steps in she's drummin' with it on the window sill.

Course, we has all kinds driftin' into the studio here, by mistake and otherwise, and I gen'rally makes a guess on 'em right; but this one don't suggest anything at all. Even that rat faced tiger of hers could have told her this wa'n't any French millinery parlor, and she didn't look like one who'd get off the trail anyway. So I plays a safety by coughin'

polite behind my hand and lettin' her make the break. She ain't backward about it, either.

"Why, there you are, Professor McCabe!" says she, in that gushy, up and down tone, like she was usin' language as some sort of throat gargle.

"How perfectly dear of you to be here, too!"

"Yes, ain't it?" says I. "I've kind of got into the habit of bein'

here."

"Really, now!" says she, smilin' just as though we was carryin' on a sensible conversation. And it's a swagger stunt too, this talkin' without sayin' anything. When you get so you can keep it up for an hour you're qualified either for the afternoon tea class or the batty ward. But the lady ain't here just to pay a social call. She makes a quick shift and announces that she's Miss Colliver, also hoping that I remember her.

"Why, sure," says I. "Miss Ann, ain't it?"

As a matter of fact, the only time we was ever within speakin' distance was once at the Purdy-Pells' when she blew in for a minute just at dinner time, lifted a bunch of American Beauties off the table with the excuse that they was just what she wanted to send to the Blind Asylum, and blew out again.

But of course I couldn't help knowin' who she was and all about her.

Ain't the papers always full of her charity doin's, her funds for this and that, and her new discoveries of shockin' things about the poor?

Ain't she built up a rep as a lady philanthropist that's too busy doing good to ever get married? Maybe Mrs. Russell Sage and Helen Gould has gained a few laps on her lately; but when it comes to startin' things for the Tattered Tenth there ain't many others that's got much on her.

"Gee!" thinks I. "Wonder what she's going to do for me?"

I ain't left long in doubt. She backs me up against the desk and cuts loose with the straight talk. "I came in to tell you about my new enterprise, Piny Crest Court," says she.

"Apartment house, is it?" says I.

"No, no!" says she. "Haven't you read about it? It's to be a white plague station for working girls."

"A white--white----Oh! For lungers, eh?"

"We never speak of them in that way, you know," says she, handin' me the reprovin' look. "Piny Crest Court is the name I've given to the site.

Rather sweet, is it not? Really there are no pines on it, you know; but I shall have a few set out. The buildings are to be perfectly lovely. I've just seen the architect's plans,--four open front cottages grouped around an administration infirmary, the superintendent's office to be finished in white mahogany and gold, and the directors' room in Circassian walnut, with a stucco frieze after della Robbia. Don't you simply love those Robbia bambinos?"

"Great!" says I, lyin' as easy and genteel as if I had lots of practice.

"I am simply crazy to have the work started," she goes on; "so I am spending three afternoons a week in filling up my lists. Everyone responds so heartily, too. Now, let me see, I believe I have put you down for a life membership."

"Eh?" says I, gaspin' some; for it ain't often I'm elected to things.

"You will have the privilege of voting for board members and of recommending two applicants a year. A life membership is two hundred and fifty dollars."

"You mean I get two-fifty," says I, "for--for just----"

Then I came to. And, say, did you ever know such a bonehead? Honest, though, from all I'd heard of the way she spreads her money around, and the patronizin' style she has of puttin' this proposition up to me, I couldn't tell for a minute how she meant it. And when I suddenly surrounds the idea that it's me gives up the two-fifty, I'm so fussed that I drops back into the chair and begins to hunt through the desk for my checkbook. And then I feels myself growin' a little warm behind the ears.

"So you just put me down offhand for two hundred and fifty, did you?"

says I.

"If you wish," says she, "you may take out a life certificate for each member of your family. Several have done that. Let me show you my list of subscribers. See, here are some of the prominent merchants and manufacturing firms. I haven't begun on the brokers and bankers yet; but you will be in good company."

"Ye-e-es?" says I, runnin' my eye over the firm names. "But I don't know much about this scheme of yours, Miss Colliver."

"Why, it is for working girls," says she, "who are victims of the white plague. We take them up to Piny Crest and cure them."

"Of working?" says I.

"Of the plague," says she. "It is going to be the grandest thing I've done yet. And I have the names of such a lot of the most interesting cases; poor creatures, you know, who are suffering in the most wretched quarters. I do hope they will last until the station is finished. It means finding a new lot, if they don't, and the public organizations are becoming so active in that sort of thing, don't you see?"

Somehow, I don't catch it all, she puts over her ideas so fast; but I gather that she'd like to have me come up prompt with my little old two-fifty so she can get busy givin' out the contracts. Seein' me still hangin' back, though, she's willin' to spend a few minutes more in describin' some of the worst cases, which she proceeds to do.

"We estimate," says Miss Ann as a final clincher, "that the average cost is about fifty dollars per patient. Now," and she sticks the subscription list into my fist, "here is an opportunity! Do you wish to save five human lives?"