"I mean to," says he. "Bladen's stuff, I suppose?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger; that is, fine feelin', darin' technic, all that sort of dope."
"I see," says he, noddin' his head. "Holding a sale, is he? On one of the upper floors?"
"Top," says I. "Quite a classy little studio joint he's made up there."
"Oh, he has, has he?" says the old boy, snappin' his eyes. "Well, of all the confounded—er—young man, ring that bell!"
Say, how was I goin' to know? I was beginnin' to suspect that this chatty streak of mine wa'n't goin' to turn out lucky for someone; but it's gone too far to hedge. I pushes the button, and in comes the butler.
"Tupper," says the old man, glarin' at him shrewd, "you know where the top-floor studio is, don't you?"
"Ye-e-es, Sir," says Tapper, almost chokin' over it.
"You'll find Mr. and Mrs. Bladen there," goes on old Grouchy. "Ask them to step down here for a moment at once."
Listened sort of mussy from where I sat, and I wa'n't findin' the armchair quite so comf'table. "Guess I'll be loafin' along," says I, casual.