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have heard of Junior, folks; you’ve probably all seen his picture in the funny papers—oops, I mean on the society page, standing next to his polo pony.” From his desk Fagan produced and held up before the camera an enlarged photo of a smiling, almost too handsome young man dressed for the ancient sport of the maharajahs, white breeches, helmet and all, evidently in the act of changing mounts between chukkers.
    “That’s Junior there. No, no, not that one. That’s the south end of a northbound horse. But there is a sort of family resemblance, isn’t there?” There was a lot more of the same, with the comedian building Gault up as a sort of half-witted Lord Fauntleroy grown to man’s estate and playing pint-sized dictator with the family business and bankroll to back his play. Fagan spoke of the nose bob Junior had had performed by a celebrated beauty surgeon, of his special shoes with built-up heels, of his wartime 4-F status, and of a showgirl named Bubbles something, to whom had been given a diamond bracelet and who had settled a breach of promise suit out of court. It was all sophomoric, but fast and barbed and really rather funny.
    “Funny,” Wingfield conceded, “if you didn’t happen to be Junior Gault, who was paying for all this. An estimated six million sets that night were tuned in to this channel—it would have been ten million if the coaxial cable had been extended all the way to the Coast.”
    Fagan was still talking very fast, with a wild light in his eye. He had the bit in his teeth and evidently couldn’t or wouldn’t stop. He lowered his voice and confidentially let the audience in on the secret that Junior Gault was engaged to Miss Dallas Trempleau of the Social Register and Dun and Bradstreet Trempleaus, a very lovely girl who fancied herself as a singer, and as a singer she was certainly a very classy girl to look at. He delicately held his nose.
    “She wasn’t that bad,” Wingfield put in. “Even appeared on this program once, for some Junior League charity or other. That was when Gault met her.”
    Behind her Miss Withers fancied she heard the door open and close again, and took her eyes from the screen long enough to notice that a young woman had come into the room and was blindly feeling her way along in the darkness toward the nearest chair. “Art?” came a throaty contralto. “You in here? They said—”
    “Yes, darling, I’m busy—”
    Which evidently gave the newcomer time to recognize what was on the screen. “Art, what are you running that old thing for, tonight of all nights? Do you know who was snooping around the studio just a few minutes ago?”
    “Excuse me,” murmured Wingfield, and bounced quickly out of his chair to seize the tall girl by the arm and lead her out into the hall again. But not before Miss Withers, whose eyes had become adjusted to the dimness, had seen who it was.
    On the screen Tony Fagan, the smile frozen on his face, was asking the TV audience to send in twelve Gault Food box tops as a wedding present to Junior and Dallas, obviously improvising desperately. But even the sheeplike studio audience had stopped laughing now, and suddenly in the middle of a sentence the screen went blank. The room lights picked up and Art Wingfield came back in alone, looking more harried than ever. “Women,” he said, thus disposing of the interruption. “Well, Miss Withers, you’ve seen the picture, what—”
    “That particular young woman who just came in was Thallie Gordon, wasn’t she?”
    “That’s right. She just wanted to tell me that there was somebody from a rival agency hovering around, probably trying to steal one of my clients …”
    “Young man,” said Miss Withers with a look, “I have been lied to by experts. We both know to whom she referred.”
    “Okay,” Wingfield said easily. “So Thallie doesn’t like our good friend, the inspector. I guess her mother was scared by a badge before Thallie was born.” He grinned. “Well, so