good cause."

"What cause?" I asked.

"Come out of there!" said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a figure
lurking in the shrubbery.

The Little Red Doctor emerged. I took one look at his most distinctive
feature.

"You, too!" I said. "What do you mean by it?"

"Ask Cyrus," returned the Little Red Doctor glumly.

"It's a cult," said Cyrus. "The credit of the notion belongs not to me,
but to my esteemed better half. A few chosen souls--"

"Here comes another of them," I conjectured, as a bowed form approached.
"Who is it? MacLachan!"

The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. His
handkerchief was pressed to his face.

"Take it down, Mac," I ordered. "It's useless." He did so, and my worst
suspicions were confirmed.

"He bullied me into it," declared the tailor, glowering at Cyrus the
Gaunt.

"It'll do your nose good," declared Cyrus jauntily. "Give it a change.