ou can stay home and read the book mother got you yesterday. Where
are you now?"

"Page one," grinning.

Mrs. Harrigan wisely refrained from continuing the debate. James had made
up his mind not to go. If the colonel repeated his invitation to dinner,
where there would be only the men folk, why, he'd gladly enough go to
that.

The women departed at three, for there was to be tennis until five
o'clock. When Harrigan was reasonably sure that they were half the
distance to the colonel's villa, he put on his hat, whistled to the
dachel, and together they took the path to the village.

"We'd look fine drinking tea, wouldn't we, old scout?" reaching down and
tweaking the dog's velvet ears. "They don't understand, and it's no use
trying to make 'em. Nora gets as near as possible. Herr Rosen! Now, where
have I seen his phiz before? I wish I had a real man to talk to. Abbott
sulks half the time, and the Barone can't get a joke unless it's driven in
with a mallet. On your way, old scout, or I'll step on you. Let's see if
we can hoof it down to the village at a trot without taking the count."

He had but two errands to execute. The first was accomplished expeditely
in the little tobacconist's shop under the arcade, where the purchase of a
box of Minghetti cigars promised later solace. These cigars were cheap,
but Harrigan had a novel way of adding to their strength if not to their
aroma. He possessed a meerschaum cigar-holder, in which he had smoked
perfectos for some years. The smoke of an ordinary cigar became that of a
regalia by the time it passed through the nicotine-soaked clay into the
amber mouthpiece. He had kept secret the result of this trifling
scientific research. It wouldn't have been politic to disclose it to
Molly. The second errand took time and deliberation. He studied the long
shelves of Tauchnitz. Having red corpuscles in superabundance, he
naturally preferred them in his literature, in the same quantity.

"Ever read this?" asked a pleasant voice from behind, indicating _Rodney
Stone_ with the ferrule of a cane.

Harrigan looked up. "No. What's it about?"

"Best story of the London prize-ring ever written. You're Mr. Harrigan,
aren't you?"

"Yes," diffidently.

"My name is Edward Courtlandt. If I am not mistaken, you were a great
friend of my father's."

"Are you Dick Courtlandt's boy?"

"I am."

"Well, say!" Harrigan held out his hand and was gratified to encounter a
man's grasp. "So you're Ed