You may possibly feel all that is blarney, and my sole reason for remaining a bachelor is that I relish the life of a rake. You may possibly be right.

Connie and I had Leroy's special hamburgers, a beef-veal-pork combination mixed with chilies. We shared a big side order of extra-thick potato chips and drank Buckler, which is a non-alcoholic beer that tastes swell but doesn't do a thing for you except quench your thirst.

Connie chattered on about a reception Lady Horowitz was planning for a visiting Russian ballerina and didn't mention a word about 1'Affaire d'Oeufs Benedict, for which I was thankful. She was excited about her arrangements for the party, and it showed in her features: snappy eyes, laughing mouth, squinched-up nose to express displeasure.

Charming, no doubt about it. But different from Theodosia Johnson's beauty. Not inferior or superior, just different. Connie was earthy, open, solid. Madam X was an unsolved riddle. So far.

"Hey," Connie said over coffee, "I've been yakking up a storm and haven't asked about you. What mischief are you up to these days, Archy?"

"Oh, this and that," I said. "Nothing heavy. Right now I'm running a credit check on a man named Hector Johnson. Ever hear of him?"

"Of course," she said promptly. "He sent in a nice check for Lady Cynthia's latest project, to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Can you imagine? Anyway, the boss asked him over for cocktails. What a doll! He's got charm coming out his ears."

"Uh-huh," I said. "Retired, is he?"

"Semi, I guess. He said he used to work for the government. He didn't say doing what, but I got the feeling it was the CIA."

"Connie, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Because he was so mysterious about it. I suppose I could have asked straight out, but I didn't want to pry. Who cares if he was a spy? He's nice and that's all that counts."

"Sure," I said.

She looked at her Swatch. "Oh, lordy, I have to get my rear in gear. Sorry to eat and run, luv, but I've got a zillion things to do. Okay?"

"Of course," I said. "You go ahead. I think I'll dawdle a bit."

She swooped to kiss my cheek, gathered up handbag and scarf, and sashayed out. I wasn't the only man, or woman, in the dining room who watched her leave. Connie radiates a healthy vigor that even strangers admire. With her robust figure and long black hair flying, she could model for the hood ornament on a turbo-charged sports coupe.

I finished a second cup of coffee, signed my tab at the bar, and wandered out. I was musing about Hector Johnson, a man who apparently was knowledgeable about orchids, had been a professor of electronics or computer stuff, and had worked for the U.S. of A., possibly as a spy. Curiouser and curiouser. I had been enlisted to investigate Theo Johnson, but now I found myself concentrating on daddy. Because, to paraphrase Willie Sutton, that's where the money was, I supposed.

I went back to my cubicle in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. It is a squarish structure of glass and stainless steel, so stark and modern it makes you yearn to see a Chick Sales just once more before you die.

My office was a joke: a tiny windowless room as confining as a Pullman berth. I am convinced my father banished me there to prove to other employees that there would be no nepotism at McNally Son. But at least I had an air-conditioner vent, and I lighted my first English Oval of the day as I set to work gathering the financial skinny on Hector Johnson and his wondrous daughter.

I phoned contacts at local banks, promising my pals a dinner at the Pelican if they would reveal whatever they had on the enigmatic Hector. Then I prepared a letter to be faxed to national credit agencies to which we subscribed. Those snoops could usually deliver everything from an individual's date of birth and Social Security number to current Zip Code, hat size, and passionate preferences, such as an inordinate fondness for sun-dried tomatoes. Privacy? It doesn't exist anymore. Not even if you're lucky enough to be dead.

I finished the letter and was about to take it upstairs to Mrs. Trelawney, my father's private secretary, and have her fax it out, when my phone rang. That was such an unusual occurrence that I stared at it a moment before picking up. I was sure it would be an automatic marketing machine working through every possible telephone number in sequence and delivering a recorded spiel on the wonderful opportunity I had been granted to invest in a rhinestone mine.

"H'lo?" I said cautiously.

"Archy McNally?"

I thought I recognized that whiny voice but hoped I was wrong.

"Yes," I said. "Speaking."

"This is Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth," he said, reeling off the four names like a sergeant selecting a latrine detail.

"Hello, CW," I said, resolving to get rid of this world-class bore as fast as humanly possible.

"Archy," he said, and I thought I detected a note of desperation, "I've got to see you as soon as possible."

"Oh?" I said. "Concerning what?"

"Well…" he started, stopped, gave me a few "Uh's" and "Um's," and finally said, "It's a legal matter."

"Then you better speak to my father," I told him. "As you know, I am not an attorney. Would you like me to set up an appointment?"

"No!" he cried. "No, no, no! I know your father is an estimable man, but he scares me."

"Well… yes," I conceded. "At times he can be rather daunting. But if you need legal advice, CW, I'm just not your man."

"It's not really a legal thing," he stammered on. "It is and it isn't. And I'd rather talk about it to you. Please, Archy."

Now I was intrigued; the Chinless Wonder, with an ego as big as all outdoors, was pleading for help. And it just might have something to do with the trustworthiness of Theodosia Johnson.

"All right, CW," I said. "Would you like to pop over to the office?"

"Oh no," he said immediately. "I'd probably be seen, the word would get back to mother, and she'd demand to know why I was seeing our lawyer."

"Very well. Then how about the Pelican Club? Cafe L'Europe? Testa's? Perhaps a Pizza Hut?"

"Won't do," he said despairingly. "I can't be seen huddling with you in public. You know how people talk."

"CW," I said, more than a little miffed, "you ask to meet me to discuss what is apparently a personal matter of some importance, and then you reject all my suggestions for a rendezvous. Here is my final offer, and I do mean final: The McNally Building has an underground garage. If you will drive down there, I will be pleased to meet with you, and we will have a cozy tete-a-tete."

"Is that the best you can do?" he said, the whine becoming a drone.

The McNally temper, though rarely displayed, is not totally nonexistent. "Not only the best," I said with some asperity, "but the only. Either be there within fifteen minutes or forget about the whole thing."

"All right," he said faintly.

I dropped my letter off in Mrs. Trelawney's office, asked her to fax it out, and went down to the garage. After that goofy exchange with CW, I was far from being gruntled, so I merely waved at Herb, our security guard, and lighted my second cigarette of the day. I leaned against a concrete pillar, puffed away, and awaited the arrival of the Chinless Wonder.

About ten minutes later his black Mercedes came rolling slowly down the ramp. He pulled into an empty parking slot, and I went over and slid in next to him.

"Are you certain no one will see us?" he asked nervously.

"No, I am not certain," I answered. "But the odds against it are worth a wager. Now what's this all about?"

"Mother told me she asked you to investigate Theodosia."

"That's correct."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find she's true-blue."

"I'm sure I shall. So what's the problem?"

He hesitated. "This is embarrassing," he said.