some of the pressure off somewhere else," growled R. P. Burns.
He shut the door of the inner office hard behind him.

"I thought so," declared Arthur Chester, suddenly forgetting
about his headache in his anxiety to know the explanation of
the five cylinders. It was a small suburban town in which
they lived, and if something had gone wrong it was a matter of
common interest. "Can you tell me about it ?" he asked - a
little diffidently, for none knew better than he that things
could not always be told, and that no lips were locked tighter
than Red Pepper's when the secret was not his to tell.

"Engine's on the blink. Got to go out and fix it," was the
unpromising reply. Burns picked up a sparkplug from the
office desk as he spoke.

"Had your dinner?"

"Don't want it."

"Shall I go out with you?"

The answer was an unintelligible grunt. As Chester was about
to follow his friend out - for there could be no doubt that
Red Pepper Burns was his friend in spite of this somewhat
surly, though by no means unusual, treatment - another door
opened tentatively, and a head was cautiously inserted.

"Your dinner's ready, Doctor Burns," said a doubtful voice.