Allies, anybody he could think of to lay the blame to. Why didn't
someone do something? It was a blessed outrage. What was one to do?

Ham's next idea seems to be who was one to do; and Mr. Robert, being
handy, was tagged. First off it was a loan; a good-sized one; then a
note or so, and finally he gets down to a plain touch now and then,
when Mr. Robert couldn't dodge.

But for a month or more, until this S. O. S. call comes in, he don't
show up at all. So I'm some curious myself to know just what's struck
him. I must say, though, that for a party who's been crossed off the
dividend list for more'n a year, he's chuckin' a good bluff. Some
spiffy bachelor apartments these are that I locates--tubbed bay trees
out front, tapestry panels in the reception-room, and a doorman
uniformed like a rear-admiral. I has to tell the 'phone girl who I am
and why, and get an upstairs O. K., before I'm passed on to the
elevator. Also my ring at B suite, third floor, is answered by a
perfectly good valet.

"From Mr. Ellins, sir?" says he, openin' the door a crack.

"Straight," says I.

He swings it wide and bows respectful. A classy party, this man of Mr.
Adams', too. Nothing down-and-out about him. Tuxedo, white tie, and
neat trimmed siders in front of his ears. One of these quiet spoken,
sleuthy movin' gents he is, a reg'lar stage valet. But he manages to
give me the once-over real thorough as he's towin' me in.

"This way, sir," says he, brushin' back the draperies and shuntin' me