"Are you in some mess or other? Because if you are I'll bring it."
"No, I can wait. I particularly don't want you to bring it. I can't explain now. I'll write you all the details. Then I want you to get a statement from the bank. Even with the four thousand gone, my balance ought to be at least a thousand dollars. See what they make it."
"Next I want you to call up Ann Marvin and ask her if she's still looking for another girl to share her studio with her . . . Ann Marvin."
"I know that. She said she wanted a third girl. If she does, tell her I'm bringing my ward--"
"Kenny," came in cold and scandalized tones from the other end, "have you been to bed at all?"
"If you make any pretense at all of being my friend," roared Kenny in a flash of temper, "will you do me the favor of assuming that I'm serious? I'm not drunk. I'm not insane. I've slept the night through. And I'm tired and terribly in earnest."
"I did. Mr. Craig--the uncle, you remember, an invalid--died. And he's made me the guardian of his niece--"
"The poor boob." Garry's voice was sad and sincere.
"Garry! Are you or are you not my friend?"
"Then listen. Next I want you to ask Max Kreiling for the name and address of the French woman he knows who teaches music--"
"Just a minute, Kenny, old man. Let me say this all after you. I am to cash your check for four thousand dollars in old bills. Ragged if possible. I am to send it registered and special delivery to Craig Farm. I am to call up Ann and tell her about your--your ward. And I'm to ask Max for the name of the French woman who teaches music."
"No. John Whitaker may have heard from him. I don't know. I haven't seen him. Oh, by the way, Kenny, Joe Curtis was in here blazing up and down my studio. Said you promised to paint his wife's portrait. What'll I tell him?"
"Tell him," said Kenny, "to go to--No, never mind. I'll be needing to work. Tell him I'll be back in New York positively by the end of next week."
He was passionately glad in the week that followed that Fate, prodigal in her gifts to him, had made him too an actor with a genius for convincing. For he had to go on digging dots, feigning wild excitement when his heart was cold within him. He hated spades. He hated dirt. He almost hated Hughie, who went from dot to dot upon the chart with unflagging zeal and system. Kenny himself dug anywhere at any time and moodily escaped when he could to write letters. He was getting his plans in line for departure.