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"They're our neighbors here at Rosemere, you know. They have guests from town, and my folks are aboard. By Jove! Here's my chance to surprise 'em. I say, would you mind paddling around and giving me a shove off?" But I stands gawpin' out at the yacht. "The Morley Beckhams?" says I. "Yes, yes!" says he. "But hurry, please. I want to catch them."
Then I tackles the 'phone, which results in three snappy conversations with a grouchy butler at sixty cents a throw, but no real dope on the Beckhams or their guests. Well, it's near two A.M. when I fin'lly lands in Quehassett, which is no proper time to call on anybody's aunt. Everything is shut tight too; so I spreads out an evenin' edition on a baggage truck and turns in weary.
"I could almost guess that from the lid you're wearin'," says I. "One of Miss Vee's, ain't it?" She pinks up and goes gaspy at that. "Please," she begins pleadin', "if you would not mention " "I might forget to," I breaks in, "if you'll tell me where I can find 'em quickest." And Celeste gets the information out rapid. They're house-partyin' at the Morley Beckhams, over at Quehassett, Long Island.
Isn't that motor a beauty? Ninety-horse." "Guess I'll take my joy ridin' closer to the turf, though," says I. "Course, I've always had a batty notion I'd like to fly some time; but " "Hello!" he breaks in. "There goes the Katrina!" and he points out a big white yacht that's slippin' along through the water about half a mile off. "It's the Beckhams'," he goes on.
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