"All right. I'll find her," Mr. Allendyce growled. Then he was startled
out of his usual composure by catching the suggestion of a twinkle in
the Harkness eye which, of course, should not be in a Forsyth butler's
eye at all.
CHAPTER IV
RED-ROBIN
For twenty-five years Cornelius Allendyce had worn nothing but black
ties. On the morning of his contemplated invasion of Patchin Place in
search of a Forsyth heir he knotted a lavender scarf about his neck and
felt oddly excited. Such a sudden and unexplainable impulse, he thought,
must portend adventure.
With a notion that all artists were "at home" at tea time, Mr. Allendyce
waited until four o'clock before he approached his agreeable task. At
the door of 22 Patchin Place he dismissed his taxicab and stood for a
moment surveying the dilapidated front of the building--with a moment's
mental picture of the magnificent pile that was Gray Manor.
A pretentious though slightly soiled register just inside the doorway,
told him that "James Forsyth" lived on the fifth floor, so the little
man toiled resolutely up the narrow, steep stairway, puffing as he
ascended.
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