have the decency to be ashamed of the deal he gave us when he
left us flat in the thick of his Middle Western trip and went
back to the Sans-Silk Skirt Company. I wanted him to know I had
seen him. As I passed, I said, `You'll mow 'em down in those
clothes, Meyers.' " Buck sat down in his leisurely fashion, and
laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't you see him, Emma, at
the seashore?"

But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set,
unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She
was staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond
him. There was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of
complete detachment, which always enveloped her when her
lightning mind was leaping ahead to a goal unguessed by the
slower thinking.

"What's your tailor's name?"

"Name? Trotter. Why?"

Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish.

"Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double- t-e-r. Say I want to
speak to the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk
Skirt Company."

T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what
in the name of----"

"I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one