Jason in the parts they were to play, and the balance of the morning and all the afternoon was his in which to rest.
He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as the two men entered.
Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly.
Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a moment before he spoke.
"Benson," he said, "the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Benson answered promptly.
"And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?"
"Why, yes, sir; I suppose so—at a squeeze"—Benson stared blankly.
"Quite so!" said Jimmie Dale calmly. "Now, another matter, Benson: I believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their masters' machines?"
"Some might," Benson replied, a little stiffly. "I hope you don't think, sir, that"
"One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done—quite generally?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a purpose, if you were so inclined?"
"Yes, sir," said Benson; "but"
"Very good!" Jimmie Dale interrupted. "Then to-night, Benson, taking advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after that until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that reprehensible habit."
"I—I don't understand, Mr. Dale."
"No; I dare say not," said Jimmie Dale—and then the whimsicality dropped from him. "Benson," he said slowly, "do you remember a night, nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You had, indiscreetly, I think,
