important than me--why, I expect that's all right too.

But it's just like some folks to remember what they're ordered to
forget. Anyway, I got bulletins now and then, and I was fairly well
posted as to when Aunty landed back in New York, and where she unpacked
her trunks. That helped some; but it didn't cut the barbed wire
exactly.

And, say, I was gettin' some anxious to see Vee once more. Nearly two
weeks she'd been home, and not so much as a glimpse of her! I'd doped
out all kinds of brilliant schemes; but somehow they didn't work. No
lucky breaks seemed to be comin' my way, either.

And then, here last Sunday after dinner, I just hauls out that church
weddin' costume I'd collected once, brushes most of the kinks out of my
red hair, sets my jaw solid, and starts to take a sportin' chance. On
the way up I sketches out a scenario, which runs something like this:

A maid answers the ring. I ask if Miss Vee is in. The maid goes to
see, when the voice of Aunty is heard in the distance, "What! A young
gentleman asking for Verona? No card? Then get his name, Hortense."
Me to the maid, "Messenger from Mr. Westlake, and would Miss Vee care
to take a short motor spin. Waiting below." Then more confab with
Aunty, and five minutes later out comes Vee. Finale: Me and Vee
climbin' to the top of one of them Riverside Drive busses, while Aunty
dreams that she's out with Sappy Westlake, the chosen one.

Some strategy to that--what? And, sure enough, the piece opens a good
deal as I'd planned; only instead of me bein' alone when I pushes the
button, hanged if two young chappies that had come up in the elevator