"What's Harrowby up to, I wonder?" he reflected "The dear old top! Nice, pleasant little party if a policeman should find this in my pocket."
Another perfect day shone in that narrow Spanish street. Up in Manhattan theatrical press agents were crowning huge piles of snow with posters announcing their attractions. Ferries were held up by ice in the river. A breeze from the Arctic swept round the Flatiron building. Here lazy summer lolled on the bosom of the town.
In the hotel dining-room Mr. Minot encountered Jack Paddock, superb in white flannels above his grapefruit. He accepted Paddock's invitation to join him.
"By the way," said Mrs. Bruce's jester, holding up a small, badly printed newspaper, "have you made the acquaintance of the San Marco Mail yet?"
"No—what's that?"
"A morning newspaper—by courtesy. Started here a few weeks back by a noiseless little Spaniard from Havana named Manuel Gonzale. Slipped in here on his rubber soles, Gonzale did—dressed all in white—lovely lemon face—shifty, can't-catch-me eyes. And his newspaper—hot stuff, my boy. It has Town Topics looking like a consular report from Greenland."
"Scandals?" asked Mr. Minot, also attacking a grapefruit.
"Scandals and rumors of scandals. Mostly hints, you know. Several references this morning to our proud and haughty friend, Lord Harrowby. For example, Madame On Dit, writing in her column, on page one, has this to say: 'The impecunious but titled Englishman who has arrived in our midst recently with the idea of connecting with certain American dollars has an interesting time ahead of him, if rumor speaks true. The little incident in the lobby of a local hotel the other evening—which was duly reported in this column at the time—was but a mild beginning. The gentleman in charge of the claimant to the title held so jealously by our British friend promises immediate developments which will be rich, rare and racy.'"
"Rich, rare and racy," repeated Minot thoughtfully. "Ah, yes—we were to watch Mr. Trimmer. I had almost forgot him in the excitement of last evening. By the way, does the Mail know anything about the disappearance of Chain Lightning's Collar?"
"Not as yet," smiled Mr. Paddock, "although Madame On Dit claims to have been a guest at the dinner. By the way, what do you make of last night's melodramatic farce?"