ors.

"There wasn't any use wiring you the truth, Roger. I didn't want to
make you unhappy any sooner than I had to. Are you upset?"

"Nothing can ever upset me again," I said with dignity. "It's your
house. I can move out."

"But you won't, Roger," he clapped an arm around my shoulders and
walked me into the study. "We're not going to bother you. But we just
had to get away from town for some road work--and it's devilish
conspicuous anywhere near the city, people watching, reporters and all
that sort of thing."

He turned, for the dismayed servants had come out and stood in a row
in the hall aghast at the appearance of the visitors who stood
awkwardly shifting their feet in the main doorway, their suit-cases
and bundles in their arms, awaiting directions.

"Take those things upstairs--show 'em, Christopher," says Jerry. "You
show 'em to their rooms, Poole. And when you're washed up, Flynn, come
down here again."

Over his shoulder I watched the hulking devils go past in sheepish
single file with furtive glances at me. When they had passed out of
sight, Jerry explained rapidly.

"You see, Roger, we had to do it. There was no other way. I needed
some running badly and there wasn't a chance for it--without the whole
thing coming out in the papers."

I smiled ironically. "And you think you've chosen a way to avoid publicity
by bringing these"--I restrained myself with difficulty--"these
_gentlemen_ here? Don't you know that every paper in New York
will have a man here writing the thing up?"

"No, they won't. They can't get in. I stopped at the Lodge as I came
by and gave my orders."

"But they'll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same."

Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose.

"No, they won't, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he
isn't."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you see, I'm Jim Robinson and _you_ are Jerry Benham."

"I!" I gasped.

"Precisely. You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art--Maecenas,
friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you've invited to
Horsham Manor to complete his training."

"Preposterous! These--these bruisers" (I let go now) "think I'm
_you_?"

"No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham,
multi-millionaire and king of good fellows. Flynn knows the truth, of
course, but he's shut as tight as a clam. He won't talk, for his own
interests are involved."

"You expect me to play the part of good fellow," I b