gstock fully: assure her that in the long run she will not be the
loser, and so on. As courteously as you know how. And--er--if in the
course of the interview you should happen to learn her given
name--er--just remember it."

"Such as Ella May or Josephine?"

"No!" he snaps. "Natalie. Now clear out."

Ain't he the foxy old pirate, though? Sendin' me off on a sleuthin'
expedition without givin' up a hint as to what it's all about! Was it
some back-number romance that this lilac-dipped note had reminded him
of? More likely there'd been some Bagstock or other who'd
double-crossed him in a deal and he'd never found a chance to get
square. Anyway, he's after a confidential report, so off I pikes.

My troubles began right at the start. I had to hunt the address up on
a city map, and when I'd located it on the lower West Side, down in the
warehouse district, I'm sure of one thing--this Mrs. Bagstock can't be
such-a-much. If I had any doubts they was knocked out by the sign hung
alongside the front door--"Furnished Rooms."

I expect it had been quite a decent old house in its day--one of these
full-width brick affairs, with fancy iron grill-work on either side of
the brownstone steps and a fan-light over the door. There was even an
old-fashioned bell-pull that was almost equal to a wall exerciser for
workin' up your muscle. I was still pumpin' away energetic, not
hearin' any results inside, when the door is jerked open, and a perky
young female with the upper part of her face framed in kid curlers and
a baby-blue boudoir cap glares at me unpleasant.

"Humph!" says she. "Tryin' to play 'Rag-Time Temple Bells,' are you?"

"Then I did register a tinkle, did I?" says I.

"Tinkle! More like a riot call," says she. "Want to look at rooms?"

"Not exactly," says I. "You see, I'm representin'--"

"Are you?" she crashes in crisp. "Well, say, you fresh agents are
goin' to overwork this comedy cut-up act with our bell one of these
times. Go on. Shoot it. What you want to wish on us--instalment
player-piano, electric dish-washer, magazine subscriptions, or--"

"Excuse me," I cuts in, producin' the letter; "but, while you're a
grand little guesser, your start is all wrong. I came to see Mrs.
Bagstock about this. Lives here, don't she?"

"Oh, Auntie?" says the young party in the boudoir cap. "Then I guess
you can come in. Now, lemme see. What's this all about? H-m-m-m!
Stocks, eh? Just a jiffy while I g