"If you're really keen on doing things," he said, "there's something you can do for me right away."
Archie beamed. Action was what his soul demanded.
"Anything, dear boy, anything! State your case!"
"Would you have any objection to putting up a snake for me?"
"Putting up a snake?"
"Just for a day or two."
"But how do you mean, old soul? Put him up where?"
"Wherever you live. Where do you live? The Cosmopolis, isn't it? Of course! You married old Brewster's daughter. I remember reading about it."
"But, I say, laddie, I don't want to spoil your day and disappoint you and so forth, but my jolly old father-in-law would never let me keep a snake. Why, it's as much as I can do to make him let me stop on in the place."
"He wouldn't know."
"There's not much that goes on in the hotel that he doesn't know," said Archie, doubtfully.
"He mustn't know. The whole point of the thing is that it must be a dead secret."
Archie flicked some more ash into the finger-bowl.
"I don't seem absolutely to have grasped the affair in all its aspects, if you know what I mean," he said. "I mean to say—in the first place—why would it brighten your young existence if I entertained this snake of yours?"
"It's not mine. It belongs to Mme. Brudowska. You've heard of her, of course?"
"Oh yes. She's some sort of performing snake female in vaudeville or something, isn't she, or something of that species or order?"
"You're near it, but not quite right. She is the lead-
