studio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any bum Bohemian
ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees
on each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with a
boy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things.

"Gee!" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. "There's some swell mob
collectin', eh?"

Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he
can do is mumble husky, "Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! The
Bertie Gardiners!"

They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each other
curious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath.
Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and
waits to see what happens.

"There comes Cousin Inez!" says I, nudgin' Whity. "See? The squatty
dame with the pearl ropes over her hair."

"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!" says Whity.

And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for the
fray, as you might say. And if the dinky shoulder straps held it was
all right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call for
four yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy,
though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in the
back of the room.

Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in