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The party had disembarked now and were nearing the door of the private entrance, the two women in Mother Hubbard veils, the two men in steamer-caps and goggles–the valet and maid carrying the coats and parasols. The larger of the two men shed his goggles, changed his steamer-cap for a slouch hat which his valet handed him, and disappeared inside, followed by the landlord. The smaller man, his hands and arms laden with shawls and wraps, gesticulated for an instant as if giving orders to the two chauffeurs, waited until both machines had backed away, and entered the open door.

“Who do you think the big man is, Mac?” Lonnegan asked.

“Don’t know, and don’t want to know.”

“Lambert.”

“What! Saw Logs?”

“The same, and–yes–by Jove! That little fellow with the wraps is Tommy.”

A moment later Tommy reappeared and made straight for the barmaid.

“Get me some crushed ice and vermouth,” he said. “We carry our Hollands with us. Why, Mr. MacWhirter! and Mr. Lonnegan! and–” (I was the “and”–but he seemed to have forgotten my name.) “Well, this is a surprise!” Neither the mill-owner nor the curate came within range of his eyes.

“Where have I been? Well, I’ll have to think. We did London for a week–Savoy for supper–Prince’s for luncheon–theatre every night–that sort of thing. Picked up a couple of Gainsboroughs at Agnew’s and some tapestries belonging to Lord–forget his name–had a letter.” (Here Tommy fumbled in his pocket.) “No, I remember now, I gave it to Sam. Then we motored to Ravenstock–looked over the Duke’s stables–spent the night with a very decent chap Sam met in the Rockies last year-son of Lord Wingfall, and–“

The ice was ready now (it was hived in a keg and hidden in the cellar, and took time to get at), and so was the vermouth and the glasses, all on a tray.

“No, I’ll carry it.” This to the barmaid, who wanted to call a waiter. “I never let anybody attend to this for Sam but myself”–this to us. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

In a few moments he returned, picking up the thread of his discourse with: “Where was I? Oh, yes, at Lord Wingfall’s son’s. Well, that’s about all. We are on our way now to spend a few days with–” Here he glanced at the curate and the mill-owner, who were absorbing every word that fell from his lips. “Some of the gentry in the next county–can’t think of their names–friends of Sam.” It became evident now that neither Mac nor Lonnegan intended introducing him to either of the Englishmen.

The barmaid pushed a second tray over the counter, and Tommy drew up a chair and waved us into three others. “Sam is so helpless, you know,” he chatted on. “I can’t leave him, really, for an hour. Depends on me for everything. Funny, isn’t it, that a man worth–well, anywhere from forty to fifty millions of dollars, and made it all himself–should be that way? But it’s a fact. Very simple man, too, in his tastes, when you know him. Mrs. Lambert and Rosie” (Mac stole a look at Lonnegan at the familiar use of the last name, but Tommy flowed on) “got tired of the Cynthia–she’s a hundred and ninety feet over all, sixteen knots, and cost a quarter of a million–and wanted Sam to get something bigger. But the old man held out; wanted to know what I thought of it, and, of course, I had to say she was all right, and that settled it. Just the same way with that new house on the Avenue–you know it, Mr. Lonnegan–after he’d spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars decorating the music-room–that’s the one facing the Avenue–she thought she’d change it to Louis-Seize. Of course Sam didn’t care for the money, but it was the dirt and plaster and discomfort of it all. By the way, after dinner, suppose you and Mr. Lonnegan, and you, too”–this to me–“come in and have a cigar with Sam. We’ve got some good Reina Victorias especially made for him–glad to have you know him.”

Mac gazed out of the open door and shut his teeth tight. Lonnegan looked down into the custard-pie face of the speaker, but made no reply. Tommy laid a coin on the counter, shot out his cuffs, said: “See you later,” and sauntered out.

No! There were no buds or blossoms–nothing of any kind, for that matter–out of Tommy’s reach!

The mill-owner rose to his feet, straightened his square shoulders, made a movement as if to speak, altered his mind, shook Mac’s hand warmly, and with a bow to the tap-room, and a special nod to the barmaid, mounted his horse and rode off. The curate looked up and smiled, his gaze riveted on Mac.

“One of your American gentlemen, sir?” he asked. The tone was most respectful–not a trace of sarcasm, not a line visible about the corners of his mouth; only the gray eyes twinkled.

“No,” answered Mac grimly; “a gentleman’s gentleman.”

The next morning at sunrise Mac burst into our room roaring with laughter, slapping his pajama-incased knee with his fat hand, the tears streaming from his eyes.

“They’ve gone!” he cried. “Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece of kindling and her maid in the first car, and–“

He was doubled up like a jack-knife.

“And left Tommy behind!” we both cried.

“Behind!” Mac was verging on apoplexy now. “Behind! Not much. He was tucked away in the other car with the valet!”