"That's right! Keep your eye on him. I don't know who your friend is, Mr. Doxey, but my father is temporarily inhabiting his trousers—and shoes. You must have slept soundly not to have been disturbed when Bellows took them off. You'll find—"
"Come off!" growled Doxey. "The old man didn't come here without pants, did he? And if he had his own on, what in thunder was he trading with—"
Bosworth held up his hand imperatively.
"Good detectives don't discuss their deductions with—never mind! I sha'n't say it. Now, it may interest you to know that we are close personal friends of Mrs. Scoville. We—"
"Don't haggle with the demmed scoundrel," protested Mr. Van Pycke, vigorously.
"Now, don't get fresh—don't get fresh!" said Mr. Doxey, his fusty black mustache coming loose on one side and drooping over his lip.
"Don't bite it!" cautioned Bosworth, hastily. Mr. Doxey stuck it back in place with a white kid paw of huge dimensions.
"I am Bosworth Van Pycke, and this is my father, Mr. Van Dieman Van Pycke," said Bosworth, bowing very low.
"Van Pycke? Wait a minute. I got a list of the guests here in my pocket. I'll see if you're among 'em. If you belong here, why ain't you out there eatin' with the rest of 'em?" Mr. Doxey looked up suspiciously from the paper he had taken from his coat pocket. "I don't like this pants gag. It sounds fishy."
"Fishy?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke. "What the devil does he mean by that, Bosworth?"