"Sorry, Hunk," says I, "but if I had all that money tied up in billboard sheets and smoky canvas, I couldn't sleep well on windy nights. None of your flat-car hippodromes for me. That's final! Besides, I got a date with a couple of swells that's liable to show up here any minute, and I ought to——"
What I really ought to have done was to have chucked a table cover over Hunk and played him for a piece of statuary; but before I can make a move in walks J. Bayard and this Washington gent. Next minute we was bein' introduced, and all I can do is stand in front of Hunk with one hand behind me, givin' him the fade-away signal energetic.
Does he get it? Not Hunk! The one real sensitive spot in his system can be reached only by sluggin' him behind the ear with a bung starter, and I didn't have one handy. He shoves his chair back into the corner and continues to gawp; so I just has to let on that he ain't there at all.
Course I'd been put wise to who this Cuyler Morrison De Kay was. He's what Mr. Steele calls an object of altruism. In other words, he's No. 7 on Pyramid Gordon's list, and our job is to frame up for him some kind and generous deed, accordin' to the specifications of the will. As usual too, J. Bayard had got all balled up over doin' it; for while Mr. De Kay ain't quite the plute he looks, it turns out he's holdin' down one of them government cinches, with a fat salary, mighty little real work, and no worry. He's a widower, and a real elegant gent too. You could tell that by the wide ribbon on his shell eyeglasses and the gray suède gloves.
I could see in a minute that he'd sort of put the spell on Steele, most likely because he was a genuine sample of what J. Bayard was givin' only a fair imitation of. You know, one of these straight-backed, aristocratic old boys that somehow has the marks of havin' been everywhere, seen everything, and done everything. You'd expect him to be able to mix a salad dressin' à la Montmartre, and reel off anecdotes about the time when he was a guest of the Grand Duke So and So at his huntin' lodge. Kind of a faded, thin-blooded, listless party, somewhere in the late fifties, with droopy eye corners and a sarcastic bite to his offhand remarks.
I may as well admit that I didn't take so kindly to Cuyler from the first. Also I was a little peeved at J. Bayard when I discovers he's lugged him up here without findin' out much about him. Hadn't even asked De Kay how it was him and Pyramid Gordon had bumped up against one another. So I fires that at him straight.
"Let's see," says I, "where was it you and Mr. Gordon got mixed up?"
"Gordon?" says he, shruggin' his shoulders and smilin' cynical. "Really, I can't conceive just why he should remember me. True, during our brief acquaintance, he showed a most active dislike for me; but I assure you it was not mutual. A man of Gordon's type—— Bah! One simply ignores them, you know."
"You don't say!" says I. "Now I had an idea that wa'n't so dead easy—ignorin' Pyramid."
Cuyler humps his gray eyebrows as if he was slightly annoyed. "I was referring merely to his offensive personality," he goes on. "One does not quarrel with a bulldog for its lack of manners."