"Who's the fool--" began Mr. Stacey hotly.

"Tut-tut, my young friend," said I. "Certain ladies whom we both esteem
can and will prove, to the satisfaction of the fair-minded, that none of
the young person's features is exactly what it should be or precisely
where it ought to be. Nevertheless, the net result is surprising and
even gratifying."

"She's a peach!" asseverated my companion.

"Substantially what I was remarking. As for your other hint, you need no
introduction to Barbran. Nobody does."

"_What_?" Phil Stacey's plain face became ugly; a hostile light
glittered in his eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he growled.

"Simply that she's about to become a local institution. She's plotting
against the peace and security of Our Square, to the extent of starting
a coffee-house at Number 26."

"No!" cried Phil joyously. "Good news!"

"As a fad. She's a budding millionairess from the West."

"No!" growled Phil, his face falling.

"Bad news; eh? It occurred to me that she might want some decorations,
and that you might be the one to do them." In his leisure hours, my
young friend, who is an expert accountant by trade (the term "expert"