"Yes! By Jove!" Mr. Mackintosh was speaking to himself. "It might
work--it might add interest--" Mr. Heatherbloom waited patiently. "Would
you have any objections," earnestly, "to my making a little addenda to
the sign on the chariot of cadence? _What's the Matter with Mother_?
'The touching lyric, as interpreted by Horatio Heatherbloom, the
reformed burglar'?"

"I _should_ object," observed the caller.

"My boy--my boy! Don't be hasty. Take time to think. I'll go further;
I'll paint a few iron bars in front of the harp. Suggestive of a
prisoner in jail thinking of mother. Say 'yes'."

"No."

"Too bad!" murmured Mr. Mackintosh in disappointed but not altogether
convinced tones. "You could use another alias, you know. If you're
afraid the police might pipe your game and nab--"

"Drop it, or--"

"All right, Mr. Heatherbloom, or any other blooming name!" Recovering
his jocular manner. "It's not for me to inquire the 'why,' or care a rap
for the 'wherefore.' Ethics hasn't anything to do with the realm of
art."

As he spoke he reached under the desk and took out the jug. "Have some?"
extending the tumbler.

The thin lips of the other moved, his hand quickly extended but was