"The old cut-up!" says I. "What about Creighton—he been around lately?"
"Every afternoon and evening," says Vee. "He's to take her to a concert somewhere this evening. I'm not asked."
"Shows his poor taste," says I. "He's due there about eight o'clock, eh?"
"Seven-thirty," says Vee. "But I don't know what to think, Torchy—the traveling-bag and—"
"Don't bother a bit, Vee," says I. "Leave it to me. If it's Clyde at the bottom of this, I've as good as got him spiked to the track. Let Auntie pack her trunk if she wants to, and don't say a word. Give the giddy old thing a chance. It'll be all the merrier afterwards."
"But—but I don't understand."
"Me either," says I. "I'm a grand little guesser, though. And I'll be outside, in ambush for Clyde, from seven o'clock on."
"Will you?" says Vee,' sighin' relieved. "But do be careful, Torchy. Don't—don't be reckless."
"Pooh!" says I. "That's my middle name. If I get slapped on the wrist and perish from it, you'll know it was all for you."
Course, it would have been more heroic if Clyde hadn't been such a ladylike gent. As it is, he's about as terrifyin' as a white poodle. So I'm still breathin' calm and reg'lar when I sees him rollin' up in a cab about seven-twenty-five. I'm at the curb before he can open the taxi door.