your time I’ll prove to you that I am right. I’ll prove it by Louise.”
“Your wife!” exclaimed Westbrook. “How?”
“Well, not exactly by her, but with her,” said Dawe. “Now, you know how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I’m the only genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor’s signature. She’s been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I’ve been cast for the neglected genius part.”
“Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion,” agreed the editor. “I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we’ll have one of those informal chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much.”
“Later,” said Dawe. “When I get another shirt. And now I’ll tell you my scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast—if you can call tea and oatmeal breakfast—Louise told me she was going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return home at three o’clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now—”
Dawe glanced toward the editor’s watch pocket.
“Twenty-seven minutes to three,” said Westbrook, scanning his time-piece.
“We have just enough time,” said Dawe. “We will
