"Yes," says I. "And isn't that something like the ring you're coverin'

up there under your shirt bosom? Let's see."

Without a word he unb.u.t.tons his collar, slips a looped string over his head, and holds out a ring. It's a big ruby set in pale gold.

"That is the ring of Donna Mario," says Don Pedro.

"Hal-lup," says I. "Jonesey, do you mean to say you're the same one who sailed with Dynamite Johnny, risked your neck to go poking around Havana, made love to the Governor General's niece, trussed him up like a roasting turkey when he interfered, and escaped with her in the palace coach through whole rafts of soldiers who'd have been made rich for life if they'd shot you on sight? You!"

"That--that was a long time ago," says Jonesey.

And if you will believe me, that's about all he would say. Wasn't even much excited over the fact that a hundred thousand dollar sugar plantation was about to be wished on him. Oh, yes, he'd go down with Don Pedro and take possession. Was the grave of Donna Mario there? Then he would go, surely.

"I--I would rather like to," says Old Jonesey.

"Huh," says I. "You better stick around until tomorrow noon. I want you to hear what I've got to feed to that bond-room bunch."

Jonesey shakes his head. No, he'd rather not. And as he shuffles back to his old files I hears him mumblin', sort of soft and easy: "Donna Mario.

Ah, yes! Donna Mario!"

Which proves, don't it, that you can't always tell. Even when the party has such a common name as Jones.

CHAPTER XI

AS LUCY LEE Pa.s.sED BY

Someone put on that Tales of Hoffman record, please, with a soft needle.

Thanks. Now if you'll turn out all but one bulb in the old rose-shaded electrolier and pa.s.s the chocolate marshmallows maybe I'll try to sketch out for you this Lucy Lee-Peyton Pratt version of the sweetest story ever told.

We got Lucy Lee on the bounce, as it were. She really hadn't come all the way up from Atlanta to visit Vee even if they were old boardin'-school chums. No, she was on her way to a house party up in Lenox and was fillin' in the time before that happened by making a duty stay with an old maid aunt who lived on Madison Avenue. But when it develops that Auntie is taking the b.u.t.termilk cure for dyspepsia, has grown too deaf to enjoy the theater, and is bugs over manipulatin' the Ouija board, Lucy Lee gets out her address book and begins callin' up old friends.

I don't know how far down Vee was on the list but she seems to be the first one to fall easy. When she hears how bored Lucy Lee is on Madison Avenue she insists on her coming right out with us. So I get my orders to round up Lucy Lee when I'm through at the office and tow her out home. Hence this openin' scene in the taxi where I finds myself being sized up coy and curious.

There's only one way of describin' Lucy Lee. She's a sweet young thing.

Nothing big or bouncy about her. No. One of these half-portions. But cute and kittenish from the tip of her double A pumps to the floppy hat brim which only half hides a dangerous pair of eyes.

"So good of you, Mr. Ballard," says she, shootin' over a shy look, "to take all this trouble for poor little me."

"It's a gift," says I. "Comes natural. What about baggage?"

"I've sent a few things by express," says she. "Thank you so much, Mr.--er--Do you know, I've heard such a lot about you from dear Vee that I simply must call you Torchy."

"If it's a case of must," says I, "then go to it."

I'll admit it was a bit sudden, but Lucy Lee is such a chummy young party, and so easy to get acquainted with, that it don't seem odd after the first few times. First off she wants to know all about the baby, and when I've shown her the latest snapshot, and quoted a couple of his bright remarks, translated free, she announces right off that he must be wonderful.

"Simp-ly wonderful!" is Lucy Lee's way of puttin' it, as she gazes admirin' at me.

Course, I don't deny it. Then she wants to know how long we've been living out on Long Island, and what the house is like, and about my work with the Corrugated Trust, and as I give her the details she listens with them big eyes gettin' wider and wider.

"Simp-ly wonderful!" says Lucy Lee.

And somehow, just by workin' that system, she begins to register. First off I was only kind of amused by it. But before we'd driven a dozen blocks I was being rapidly convinced that here, at last, was somebody who really understood. You know how it is. You feel that you're a great strong n.o.ble man, so wise in the head that there's no use tryin' to conceal it from eyes like that; and yet so kind and generous that you don't mind talking to any simple young person who might be helped by it.

Oh, yes. A half hour with Lucy Lee and you're apt to need an elastic hat band. You never knew you could reel off such entertainin' chat. Why, without half tryin' I could start that ripply laugh of hers going and get the dimples playin' tag with her blushes. By the time we gets home I feels like a reg'lar guy.

"Cute little thing, ain't she?" I remarks to Vee durin' the forty minute wait while Lucy Lee dresses for dinner.

"Oh, yes," says Vee, with a knowin' smile. "That is her specialty, I believe. She's a dear though, even if she doesn't mean quite all of it."

"Ah, why wake me up!" says I, grinnin'.

It was next mornin' though that I got my big jolt, when an express truck backs up with about a ton of baggage. There was only two wardrobe trunks, a hat trunk, and a steamer trunk, and the men unloads 'em all.

"Hal-lup!" says I, when they staggers in with the last one. "Who's movin' in?"

Seems it's the few little things that Lucy Lee needs for the week-end.

"I've told her to send for her maid," says Vee. "It was stupid of me not to think of that before, knowing Lucy Lee."

And later, when I've been called in to help undo the straps, I gets a glimpse of the exhibit. Morning and afternoon frocks in one, evening gowns in another, the steamer trunk full of shoes, besides all the hats.

"Huh!" says I, on the side to Vee. "Carries all her own scenery, don't she? Say, there's enough to outfit a Ziegfeld song revue."

What got the biggest gasp out of me though, was when Lucy Lee unpacks her collection of framed photos and ranges 'em on the mantel and dressin'-table. More'n a dozen, all men.

"You don't mean, Lucy Lee," says Vee, "that these are all--er--on the active list?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," says Lucy Lee, springin' the baby stare. "They are simply some of my men friends. For instance, this is dear old Major Knight, who's chairman of some board or other that Daddy is a director on. He is so jolly and is always saying--Well, never mind that. This one is Victor Norris, who tried so hard to get into aviation and was just about to fly when the war had to go and end it. He's a perfectly heavenly dancer. Then there's poor Arthur Kirby, only a secretary to some senator, but such a nice boy. And the one in the naval uniform is d.i.c.k--er--Well, I met him at a dinner in Washington just before he got his discharge and he told me so many thrilling things about chasing submarines in the North Sea or--or the Mediterranean or somewhere. Hasn't he nice eyes, though? And this next one----"

Well, I forget the rest for about then I got busy wonderin' how she could keep the run of 'em all without the aid of a card index. But she could. To Lucy Lee life must seem like a parade, she being the given point. Which was where I begun to agree with Vee that there ought to be a fourth plate put on the table, for over Sunday, at least.

"But who'll I get?" I asks.

"Silly!" says Vee. "A man, of course. Any man."

"All right," says I. "I'll try to collect somebody, even if I have to draft Piddie."

Sat.u.r.day afternoon is apt to be more or less of a busy time at the Corrugated though, so it's near noon before I remembers my promise and begins to look around panicky. No, Mr. Piddie couldn't oblige. He'd planned to take the fam'ly to the Bronx. Sudders, our a.s.sistant auditor, was booked for an all day golf orgie. I'd almost decided to kidnap Vincent, our fair-haired office boy with the parlor manners, when I happened to pa.s.s through the bond room and gets a glimpse of this Peyton Pratt person lingerin' at his desk. He's diggin' a time-table out of a suitcase.

"Whither away, Peyton?" says I.

"Oh!" says he, sighin' discontented. "I suppose I must run up and spend the day with my married sister in New Haven."

"Why act so tickled over it?" says I.