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 Think that over. I've got an errand or two that will keep me busy for a while."

"You'll be here when. . . ."

"When you face the scratch? Yes; I'll be here. I want to see how certain things are going to break."

Out in Washington Avenue the man turned down the street as though he knew exactly where he was going. He made one pause. . . at a men's furnishing store temporarily in charge of a placid, uninspiring, but dependable clerk. Ten minutes later he mounted a stoop and rang the of a house. A woman opened the door.

"Mrs. Quinby?" he asked.

"Yes." It was plain that she wondered who he might be.

"We are both interested," he said gravely, "in a very fine boy who finds himself in trouble. My name is Thomas Woods. May I come in?"

She held the door wide for him in quick welcome, for his praise of Bert had reached her troubled heart. Up the hall, near the dining room doorway, a harassed man stood and surveyed him.

"Tom Woods! Are you the man who deals in butterflies?"

"Yes. Rather queer business, isn't it?"

"Rather," Mr. Quinby agreed coldly. "Bert has spent quite a bit of time out at your place. Were you one of those who encouraged him in the mad things he's done?"