party were gathering with tender solicitude about their hostess in the ballroom beyond. Dick Minot, hopeless, glum, stalked moodily among them. Into the crowd drifted Jack Paddock, his sprightly air noticeably lacking, his eyes worried, dreadful.
"For the love of heaven," Minot asked, as they stepped together into a secluded corner, "what ails you?"
"Be gentle with me, boy," said Paddock unhappily. "I'm in a horrible mess. The graft, Dick—the good old graft. It's over and done with now."
"What do you mean?"
"It happened last night after our wild chase of Harrowby—I was fussed—excited I prepared two sets of repartee for my two customers to use to-night"
"Yes?"
"I always make carbon copies to refer to myself just before the stuff is to be used. A few minutes ago I took out my copies. Dick! I sent the same repartee to both of them!"
"Good lord!"
