“Ah, pickles!” says I. “Those kids are all right. They’re full of life and ginger, that’s all.”
“Especially ginger,” says Pinckney.
“What of it?” says I. “Or are you just blowin’ about ’em? It’s all right, they’re a great pair, and any time you want to entertain me for half an hour, turn ’em loose in my comp’ny.”
“Done!” says Pinckney. “We’ll take a cab right up.”
“Put it off three minutes, can’t you?” says I, lookin’ over the French pastry tray and spearin’ a frosted creampuff that was decorated up with sugar flowers until it looked like a bride’s bouquet.
He insists on callin’ my bluff, though; so up the avenue we goes, when I should have been hotfootin’ it back to the studio. But I could see that Pinckney was some anxious about how the kids was gettin’ on, Gertie being away for the day, and I thinks maybe I’ll be useful in calmin’ any riot he might find in progress.
All was quiet and peaceful, though, as Pinckney opens the door with his latchkey. No howls from upstairs, no front windows broken, and nobody slidin’ down the banisters. We was just waitin’ for the automatic elevator to come down when we hears voices floatin’ out from the lib’ry. Pinckney steps to the doorway where he can see through into the next room, and then beckons me up for a squint.
It wa’n’t the kids at all, but a couple of grownups that was both strangers to me. From the way the young woman is dressed I could guess she was the new governess. Anyway, she’s makin’ herself right to home, so far as entertainin’ comp’ny goes; for she and the gent with her is more or less close together and mixed up. First off it looked like a side-hold lover’s clinch, and then again it didn’t.
“Is it a huggin’ match, or a rough-house tackle?” I whispered over Pinckney’s shoulder.
“I pass the declaration,” says he. “Suppose we investigate.”