for Harold by receiving the guests at the ballroom door, was as mystified as anybody by the Freshman's unaccounted absence. Dan stood for a lot of good-natured chaffing. He was feeling fine. Wasn't the goat of the evening his discovery?
To his pal Garrity, Dan confided, "Estabrook must have handed 'Speedy' the bill in advance, and 'Speedy' probably dropped dead."
From her place behind the counter at the gentlemen's wardrobe near the cigar stand, Peggy Sayre was worried too. She continued receiving coats and hats and handing out checks to the tuxedo-attired males. And she kept on monotonously intoning to their female companions, "Ladies' cloakroom upstairs and to the right." But she was holding a weather eye out for Harold and—Grace Beach. What ever had become of him? There was only one possible reason for his lateness, she decided, that tuxedo! She was, as usual, right, Harold Lamb, minus coat and trousers, was at that moment hopping nervously from one foot to the other in the dimly lighted tailor shop of Morris Hertz waiting for his $38.50 tuxedo suit to be finished.
The tailor himself, harassed and perspiring in every pore, was wielding his needle with a fast, furious but clumsy hand. He had been
