s I. "I don't see why Mrs. Pemmy couldn't let you find out
about her for yourself. Even if the old girl don't belong, what's the
use bein' so rough with her?"

"Do you know, Torchy," says Vee, "I felt that way about it when Mrs.
Foote was snubbing her. And yet--well, I wish I knew just what to do."

"Clean out of my line," says I.

I expect it was the roses that set me mullin' the case over again. They
was sent over for Vee a couple of days later--half a dozen great
busters, like young cabbages, with stems a yard long. They come with the
compliments of Mrs. Ben Tupper.

"I simply couldn't send them back," says Vee; "and yet----"

"I get you," says I. "But don't worry. Let the thing ride a while. I got
an idea."

It wasn't anything staggerin'. It had just struck me that if Vee had to
hand out any social smears she ought to do it on her own dope, and not
accordin' to Mrs. Pemmy Foote's say-so. Which is why I begins pumpin'
information out of anybody that came handy. Goin' into town next
mornin', I tackled three or four on the 8:03 in an offhand way.

Oh, yes, the Ben Tuppers! Business of hunchin' the shoulders. No, they
didn't belong to the Country Club, nor the Hunt Association, nor figure
on the Library or Hospital boards, or anything else. In fact, they don't
mingle much. Hadn't made the grade. Barred? We-e-ell, in a way, perhaps.
Why? Oh, there was Mrs. Ben. Wasn't she enough? An ex-actress with two
or three hubbys in the discard! Could she expect people to swallow that?

Only one gent, though, had anything definite to offer. He's a
middle-aged sport that seems to make a specialty of wearin' checked
suits and yellow gloves. He chuckles when I mentions Mrs. Tupper.

"Grand old girl, Clara Belle," says he.

"Eh?" says I. "Shoot the rest."

"Couldn't think of it, son," says he. "You're too young. But in my day
Clara Belle Kinney was some queen."

And that's all I can get out of him except more chuckles. I files away
the name, though; and that afternoon, while we was waitin' for a quorum
of directors to straggle into the General Offices, I springs it on Old
Hickory.

"Mr. Ellins," says I, "did you ever know of a Clara Belle Kinney?"

"Wha-a-at?" he gasps, almost swallowin' his cigar. "Listen to that,
Mason. Here's a young innocent asking if we ever knew Clara Belle
Kinney. Did we?"

And old K. W. Mason, what does he do but throw back his shiny dome, open
his mouth, and roar out: