"Are you certain, Maggie, that the Duchess hasn't heard from Larry?"

"If she has, she hasn't mentioned it. But why don't you ask her
yourself?"

"I did, but she wouldn't say a thing. You can't get a word out of the
Duchess with a jimmy, unless she wants to talk--and she never wants to
talk." He turned his sharp, narrowly set eyes upon the lean old man.
"It's got me guessing, Jimmie. Larry was due out of Sing Sing
yesterday, and we haven't had a peep from him, and though she won't
talk I'm sure he hasn't been here to see his grandmother."

"Sure is funny," agreed Old Jimmie. "But mebbe Larry has broke
straight into a fresh game and is playing a lone hand. He's a quick
worker, Larry is--and he's got nerve."

"Well, whatever's keeping him we're tied up till Larry comes." Barney
turned back to Maggie. "I say, sister, how about robing yourself in
your raiment of joy and coming with yours truly to a palace of jazz,
there to dine and show the populace what real dancing is?"

"Can't, Barney. Mr. Hunt"--the name given the painter at his original
christening--"asked the Duchess and me to have dinner up here. He's to
cook it himself."

"For your sake I hope he cooks better than he paints." And sliding
down in his chair until he rested upon a more comfortable vertebra,
the elegant Barney lit a monogrammed cigarette, and with idle patience
swung his bamboo stick.