Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

“You want to go? You shall; be here by ten, not later. We are in Park Avenue, only four blocks from your hotel.”

Orrin unpacked, bathed and shaved with care, and rubbed hazeline on certain painful bruises. When he had arrayed himself formally he went down and dined, after which he donned coat and muffler, and with topper set just a little back on his curls and looking like a very young and very handsome Londoner of an unusually alert and intelligent type, he asked the doorman to direct him to the corner of Park Avenue and Thirty-Eighth Street, the address Mrs. Freddy had given.

He was going out when he noticed a beefy man in conference at the door of the manager’s office, not more than twenty paces away. The man was exhibiting a soft hat of familiar appearance. It was his own hat! And just then the head porter glanced his way and pointed.

The revolving door turned invitingly. Orrin stepped out on to the sidewalk. A taxi stood at the curb. Orrin gave the chauffeur a bill, grinned, and told him to drive once around the block and keep the change.

The beefy man came out through the revolving door, ran after the taxi, shouting, while Orrin Quire, already guilty of several misdemeanors and at least one felony, and now a fugitive from justice, went on his care-free stroll toward the Topps-Jones residence.

Freddy Topps-Jones earned a fortune every year prescribing art for the decoration of interiors; the function of Mrs. Freddy, who was less than half his age, was to think up the most delightful ways of spending the annual fortune. They were on the best of terms, and very happy.

There were visitors when Orrin appeared and somebody suggested bridge, so that the evening was well advanced when the car was summoned to go to the Van Dyls.

When they stopped before the awning, guests were still arriving in numbers and lines of waiting cars stood on both sides of the street. Orrin was interested to note that the truck in which he had fled from the haunted house was gone.

Mrs. Freddy presented him to her sister, Mrs. Van Dyl, a friendly little woman, who welcomed him as an expatriate likes to be received.

Judge Van Dyl was pressing his hand warmly, telling him how glad they all were to have him home again, “now that he had grown into such a fine, upstanding young man, who would doubtless” — but Orrin lost the rest of it in the sudden realization that here was the queer man who had handed him the burned match.

“This,” said Mrs. Van Dyl, patting the shoulder of a frightened youth, much too large for his fourteen years, “is our son, Orton. Mr. Quire, as a very, very little boy, lived in the big place over the way. Orrie, before you were born.

“And this,” drawing forward a ravishing vision in something filmy, “is our little girl. Lorraine.”

Great blue eyes, wide with suspense, looked into Orrin’s. What was that awful phrase Americans used when introduced for the first time? Oh, yes, to be sure.

“Pleased to meet you!” said Orrin, and the blue eyes twinkled and thanked him.

Orrin really wanted to dance, but he must pay court first to Grandma Van Dyl. She sat on a sofa like a dais and pointed an ear trumpet at him.

“Know you among a thousand,” she shrilled. “Picture of your grandfather when he was your age.” She gathered the skirt of her modish dress, with the absent-minded movement that an age of petticoats had made habitual, scowled when she realized that there was nothing to gather, and pounced at him.

“Now I suppose you are going to open the old Quire place and carry on just as your grandfather did. After your mother died and Cassie took you to England, he lived all alone in the big house with his Japanese servants, his secret passages, his orchids and his zoo, entertaining impossible people, associating with prize fighters, backing musical shows, betting on horses and gambling in Wall Street, and getting richer all the time.”

Then, ignoring Orrin she turned on Mrs. Freddy: “Where are his blessed aunts?”

“Cassie is in the hospital, with appendicitis. And Mary is with her.”

“Of course. Mary never called her soul her own. Nobody could with Cassie. Most stubborn, willful creature I ever knew.”

Mrs. Freddy spoke confidentially into the trumpet, while Orrin sidled away unnoticed.

Guided by the music he found the ballroom and cut in as soon as he could locate Lorraine Van Dyl.

“So we are twins,” said Orrin. “Your birthday, my birthday.”

“Twins!” echoed Lorraine. “I like that: and you practically a grown man. Honestly — why, I am only seventeen.”

A youth cut in, whereupon Orrin retreated to the side lines awaiting another chance. The butler whispered to him: “If you are Mr. Orrin Quire, there are two gentlemen at the side door with a message for you. This way, sir, please.”

As Orrin stepped out on to the porch the two gentlemen received him strategically, one on either side, securing his arms in a firm grasp and marching him down the steps.

“Police,” growled one with terse economy of words; “come along quiet and don’t make a fuss.”