w!" exploded the man at the easel in his big voice, first taking the
brushes from his mouth. "You're a swell-looking old pirate!--ready to
loot the sub-treasury and then scuttle the old craft with all hands on
board! A breathing, speaking, robbing likeness!"

"Maggie's right, and Nuts's right," put in Barney Palmer. "It's sure a
rotten picture, and then again it sure looks like you, Jimmie."

The smartly dressed Barney--Barney could not keep away from Broadway
tailors and haberdashers with their extravagant designs and color
schemes--dismissed the insignificant matter of the portrait, and resumed
the really important matter which had brought him to her.

"Are you certain, Maggie, that the Duchess hasn't heard from Larry?"

"If she has, she hasn't mentioned it. But why don't you ask her
yourself?"

"I did, but she wouldn't say a thing. You can't get a word out of the
Duchess with a jimmy, unless she wants to talk--and she never wants to
talk." He turned his sharp, narrowly set eyes upon the lean old man.
"It's got me guessing, Jimmie. Larry was due out of Sing Sing yesterday,
and we haven't had a peep from him, and though she won't talk I'm sure
he hasn't been here to see his grandmother."

"Sure is funny," agreed Old Jimmie. "But mebbe Larry has broke straight
into a fresh game and is playing a lone hand. He's a quick worker, Larry
is--and he's got nerve."

"Well, whatever's keeping him we're tied up till Larry comes." Barney
turned back to Maggie. "I say, sister, how about robing yourself in your
raiment of joy and coming with yours truly to a palace of jazz, there to
dine and show the populace what real dancing is?"

"Can't, Barney. Mr. Hunt"--the name given the painter at his original
christening--"asked the Duchess and me to have dinner up here. He's to
cook it himself."

"For your sake I hope he cooks better than he paints." And sliding
down in his chair until he rested upon a more comfortable vertebra, the
elegant Barney lit a monogrammed cigarette, and with idle patience swung
his bamboo stick.

"You're half an hour late, Maggie," Hunt began at her again in his
rumbling voice. "Can't stand for such a waste of my time!"

"How about my time?" retorted Maggie, who indeed had a grievance. "I was
supposed to have the day off, but instead I had to carry that tray of
cigarettes around till the last person in the Ritzmore had finished
lunch. Anyhow," she added, "I don't see that your time's worth so much
whe