town
house, but Miss Proctor wants one for herself in the country. I've
agreed to that; but it must be small and it must be cheap."

"Cheap" was a word that the clients of Post & Constant never used; but
Post knew the weaknesses of some of the truly rich, and he knew also
that no house ever built cost only what the architect said it would
cost.

"I know the very house you want!" he exclaimed. "One of our young men
owns it. He made it over from an old farmhouse. It's very well
arranged; we've used his ground-plan several times and it works out
splendidly. If he's not at home, I'll show you over the place myself.
And if you like the house he's the man to build you one."

When they reached Cochran's home he was at Garden City playing golf,
but the servant knew Mr. Post, and to him and his client threw open
every room in the house.

"Now, this," exclaimed the architect enthusiastically, "is the master's
bedroom. In your case it would probably be your wife's room and you
would occupy the one adjoining, which Cochran now uses as a guest-room.
As you see, they are entirely cut off from-"

Mr. Griswold did not see. Up to that moment he had given every
appearance of being both bored and sulky. Now his attention was
entirely engaged--but not upon the admirable simplicity of Mr.
Cochran's ground-plan, as Mr. Post had hoped. Instead, the eyes of the
greatest catch in America were intently regarding a display of
photographs that smiled back at him from every corner of the room. Not
only did he regard these photographs with a savage glare, but he
approached them and carefully studied the inscriptions scrawled across
the face of each.

Post himself cast a glance at the nearest photographs, and then hastily
manoeuvred his client into the hall and closed the door.

"We will now," he exclaimed, "visit the butler's pantry, which opens
upon the dining-room and kitchen, thus saving--"

But Griswold did not hear him. Without giving another glance at the
house he stamped out of it and, plumping himself down in the motor-car,
banged the door. Not until Post had driven him well into New York did
he make any comment.

"What did you say," he then demanded, "is the name of the man who owns
that last house we saw?"

Post told him.

"I never heard of him!" said Griswold as though he were delivering
young Cochran's death sentence. "Who is he?"

"He's an architect in our office," said Post. "We think a lot of him.
He'll