filtered Croton, extra quality aniline dyes, and two kinds of
wood alcohol, and after you've had a pint of it you don't care whether
the milk fed Philadelphia chicken was put in cold storage last winter, or
back in the year of the big wind.

Madam Doughretti had just fed the Punk Lady waltz into the pianola for
the fourth time as we pulls up at the curb.

"It's no use," says Vincent. "She wouldn't be here. I will wait, though,
while you take a look around; if you will, Shorty."

On the way over he's given me a description of his missin' parent; so I
pikes up the steps, pushes past the garlic smells, and proceeds to
inspect the groups around the little tables. What I'm lookin' for is a
squatty old party with gray hair pasted down over her ears, and a waist
like a bag of hay tied in the middle. She's supposed to be wearin' a
string bonnet about the size of a saucer, with a bunch of faded velvet
violets on top, a coral brooch at her neck, and either a black alpaca or
a lavender sprigged grenadine. Most likely, too, she'll be doin' the
shovel act with her knife.

Well, there was a good many kinds of females scattered around the coffee
stained tablecloths, but none that answers to these specifications. I was
just gettin' ready to call off the search, when I gets my eye on a couple
over in one corner. The gent was one of these studio Indians, with his
hair tucked inside his collar.

The old girl facin' him didn't have any Tonawanda look about her, though.
She was what you might call a frosted pippin, a reg'lar dowager dazzler,
like the pictures you see on fans. Her gray hair has been spliced out
with store puffs until it looks like a weddin' cake; her hat is one of
the new wash basin models, covered with pink roses that just matches the
color of her cheeks; and her peek-a-poo lace dress fits her like it had
been put onto her with a shoe horn.

Sure, I wa'n't lookin' for any such party as this; but I can't help
takin' a second squint. I notices what fine, gentle old eyes she has, and
while I was doin' that I spots something else. Just under her chin is one
of them antique coral pins. Course, it looked like a long shot, but I
steps out to the door and motions Vincent to come in.

"I expect we're way off the track," says I; "but I'd like to have you
take a careless glance at the giddy old party over under the kummel sign
in the corner; the one facin' this way--there."

Vincent gives a jump at the first look. Then he sta