The butler, who was also Embury’s valet and a general household steward, looked up quickly. He had been in Miss Ames’ employ for many years before Eunice’s marriage, and now, in the Embury’s city home was the indispensable major-domo of the establishment.

“Yes,” went on Aunt Abby, “that will make it all quite circumspect and correct. Ferdinand, tomorrow you accompany me to Newark, New Jersey.”

“I think not,” said Eunice quietly, and dismissing Ferdinand with a nod, she began serenely to make the tea.

“Don’t be silly, Aunt Abby,” she said; “you can’t go that way. It would be all right to go with Ferdinand, of course, but what could you do when you reached Newark? Race about on foot, following up this clown, or whoever is performing?”

“We could take a taxicab—”

“You might get one and you might not. Now, you will wait till San comes home, and see if he’ll let you have the big car.”

“Will you go then, Eunice?”

“No; of course not. I don’t go to such fool shows! There’s the door! Sanford’s coming.”

A step was heard in the hall, a cheery voice spoke to Ferdinand as he took his master’s coat and hat and then a big man entered the living-room.

“Hello, girls,” he said, gaily; “how’s things?”

He kissed Eunice, shook Aunt Abby’s hand and dropped into an easy chair.

“Things are whizzing,” he said, as he took the cup Eunice poured for him. “I’ve just come from the Club, and our outlook is rosy-posy. Old Hendricks is going to get, badly left.”

“It’s all safe for you, then, is it?” and Eunice smiled radiantly at her husband.

“Right as rain! The prize-fights did it! They upset old Hendrick’s apple-cart and spilled his beans. Lots of them object to the fights because of the expense—fighters are a high-priced bunch—but I’m down on them because I think it bad form—”

“I should say so!” put in Eunice, emphatically.

“Bad form for an Athletic Club of gentlemen to have brutal exhibitions for their entertainment.”

“And what about the Motion-Picture Theatre?”

“The same there! Frightful expense,—and also rotten taste! No, the Metropolitan Athletic Club can’t stoop to such entertainments. If it were a worth-while little playhouse, now, and if they had a high class of performances, that would be another story. Hey, Aunt Abby? What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Sanford, you know I’m ignorant on such matters. But I want to ask you something. Have you read the paper to-day?”

“Why, yes, being a normal American citizen, I did run through the Battle-Ax of Freedom. Why?”

“Did you read about Hanlon—the great Hanlon?”

“Musician, statesman or criminal? I can’t seem to place a really great Hanlon. By the way, Eunice, if Hendricks blows in, ask him to stay to dinner, will you? I want to talk to him, but I don’t want to seem unduly anxious for his company.”

“Very well,” and Eunice smiled; “if I can persuade him, I will.”

“If you can!” exclaimed Miss Abby, her sarcasm entirely unveiled. “Alvord Hendricks would walk the plank if you invited him to do so!”

“Who wouldn’t?” laughed Embury. “I have the same confidence in my wife’s powers of persuasion that you seem to have, Aunt Abby; and though I may impose on her, I do want her to use them upon me deadly r-rival!”

“You mean rival in your club election,” returned Miss Ames, “but he is also your rival in another way.”

“Don’t speak so cryptically, Aunt, dear. We all know of his infatuation for Eunice, but he’s only one of many. Think you he is more dangerous than, say, friend Elliott?”

“Mason Elliott? Oh, of course, he has been an admirer of Eunice since they made mud-pies together.”

“That’s two, then,” Embury laughed lightly. “And Jim Craft is three and Halliwell James is four and Guy Little—”

“Oh, don’t include him, I beg of you!” cried Eunice; “he flats when he sings!”

“Well, I could round up a round dozen, who would willingly cast sheeps’ eyes at my wife, but—well, they don’t!”

“They’d better not,” laughed Eunice, and Embury added, “Not if I see them first!”

“Isn’t it funny,” said Aunt Abby, reminiscently, “that Eunice did choose you out of that Cambridge bunch.”

“I chose her,” corrected Embury, “and don’t take that wrong! I mean that I swooped down and carried her off under their very noses! Didn’t I, Firebrand?”

“The only way you could get me,” agreed Eunice, saucily.

“Oh, I don’t know!” and Embury smiled. “You weren’t so desperately opposed.”

“No; but she was undecided,” said Aunt Abby; “why, for weeks before your engagement was announced, Eunice couldn’t make up her mind for certain. There was Mason Elliott and Al Hendricks, both as determined as you were.”

“I know it, Aunt. Good Lord, I guess I knew those boys all my life, and I knew all their love affairs as well as they knew all mine.”

“You had others, then?” and Eunice opened her brown eyes in mock amazement.

“Rather! How could I know you were the dearest girl in the world if I had no one to compare you with?”

“Well, then I had a right to have other beaux.”

“Of course you did! I never objected. But now, you’re my wife, and though all the men in Christendom may admire you, you are not to give one of them a glance that belongs to me.”

“No, sir; I won’t,” and Eunice’s long lashes dropped on her cheeks as she assumed an absurdly overdone meekness.

“I was surprised, though,” pursued Aunt Abby, still reminiscent, “when Eunice married you, Sanford. Mr. Mason is so much more intellectual and Mr. Hendricks so much better looking.”

“Thank you, lady!” and Embury bowed gravely. “But you see, I have that—er—indescribable charm—that nobody can resist.”

“You have, you rascal!” and Miss Ames beamed on him. “And I think this a favorable moment to ask a favor of your Royal Highness.”

“Out with it. I’ll grant it, to the half of my kingdom, but don’t dip into the other half.”

“Well, it’s a simple little favor, after all. I want to go out to Newark to-morrow in the big car—”

“Newark, New Jersey?”

“Is there any other?”

“Yep; Ohio.”

“Well, the New Jersey one will do me, this time. Oh, Sanford, do let me go! A man is going to will another man—blindfolded, you know—to find a thingumbob that he hid—nobody knows where—and he can’t see a thing, and he doesn’t know anybody and the guide man is Mr. Mortimer—don’t you remember, his mother used to live in Cambridge? she was an Emmins—well, anyway, it’s the most marvelous exhibition of thought transference, or mind-reading, that has ever been shown—and I must go. Do let me?—please, Sanford!”

“My Lord, Aunt Abby, you’ve got me all mixed up! I remember the Mortimer boy, but what’s he doing blindfolded?”

“No; it’s the Hanlon man who’s blindfolded, and I can go with Ferdinand—and—”

“Go with Ferdinand! Is it a servants’ ball—or what?”

“No, no; oh, if you’d only listen, Sanford!”

“Well, I will, in a minute, Aunt Abby. But wait till I tell Eunice something. You see, dear, if Hendricks does show up, I can pump him judiciously and find out where the Meredith brothers stand. Then—”

“All right, San, I’ll see that he stays. Now do settle Aunt Abby on this crazy scheme of hers. She doesn’t want to go to Newark at all—”

“I do, I do!” cried the old lady.

“Between you and me, Eunice, I believe she does want to go,” and Embury chuckled. “Where’s the paper, Aunt? Let me see what it’s all about.”

“‘A Fair Test,’“ he read aloud. “‘Positive evidence for or against the theory of thought transference. The mysterious Hanlon to perform a seeming miracle. Sponsored by the Editor of the Newark Free Press, assisted by the prominent citizen, James L. Mortimer, done in broad daylight in the sight of crowds of people, tomorrow’s performance will be a revelation to doubters or a triumph indeed for those who believe in telepathy.’ H’m—h’m—but what’s he going to do?”

“Read on, read on, Sanford,” cried Aunt Abby, excitedly.

“‘Starting from the Oberon Theatre at two o’clock, Hanlon will undertake to find a penknife, previously hidden in a distant part of the city, its whereabouts known only to the Editor of the Free Press and to Mr. Mortimer. Hanlon is to be blindfolded by a committee of citizens and is to be followed, not preceded by Mr. Mortimer, who is to will Hanlon in the right direction, and to “guide” him merely by mental will-power. There is to be no word spoken between these two men, no personal contact, and no possibility of a confederate or trickery of any sort.

“ ‘Mr. Mortimer is not a psychic; indeed, he is not a student of the occult or even a believer in telepathy, but he has promised to obey the conditions laid down for him. These are merely and only that he is to follow Hanlon, keeping a few steps behind him, and mentally will the blindfolded man to go in the right direction to find the hidden knife.’ ”

“Isn’t it wonderful, Sanford,” breathed Miss Abby, her eyes shining with the delight of the mystery.

“Poppycock!” and Embury smiled at her as a gullible child. “You don’t mean to say, aunt, that you believe there is no trickery about this!”

“But how can there be? You know, Sanford, it’s easy enough to say ‘poppycock’ and ‘fiddle-dee-dee!’ and ‘gammon’ and ‘spinach!’ But just tell me how it’s done—how it can be done by trickery? Suggest a means however complicated or difficult—”

“Oh, of course, I can’t. I’m no charlatan or prestidigitateur! But you know as well as I do, that the thing is a trick—”

“I don’t! And anyway, that isn’t the point. I want to go to see it. I’m not asking your opinion of the performance, I’m asking you to let me go. May I?”

“No, indeed! Why, Aunt Abby, it will be a terrible crowd—a horde of ragamuffins and ruffians. You’d be torn to pieces—”

“But I want to, Sanford,” and the old lady was on the verge of tears. “I want to see Hanlon—”

“Hanlon! Who wants to see Hanlon?”

The expected Hendricks came into the room, and shaking hands as he talked, he repeated his question: “Who wants to see Hanlon? Because I do, and I’ll take any one here who is interested.”

“Oh, you angel man!” exclaimed Aunt Abby, her face beaming. “I want to go! Will you really take me, Alvord?”

“Sure I will! Anybody else? You want to see it, Eunice?”

“Why, I didn’t, but as Sanford just read it, it sounded interesting. How would we go?”

“I’ll run you out in my touring car. It won’t take more’n the afternoon, and it’ll be a jolly picnic. Go along, San?”

“No, not on your life! When did you go foolish, Alvord?”

“Oh, I always had a notion toward that sort of thing. I want to see how he does it. Don’t think I fall for the telepathy gag, but I want to see where the little joker is,—and then, too, I’m glad to please the ladies.”

“I’ll go,” said Eunice; “that is, if you’ll stay and dine now—and we can talk it over and plan the trip.”

“With all the pleasure in life,” returned Hendricks.