moking a cigar.

"He'll nab me if I crack that window," the desperate Peck decided, and
continued on down the street, crossed to the other side and came back.
It was now dark and over the art shop B. Cohn's name burned in small
red, white and blue electric lights.

And lo, it was spelled B. Cohen!

Ex-private William E. Peck sat down on a fire hydrant and cursed with
rage. His weak leg hurt him, too, and for some damnable reason, the
stump of his left arm developed the feeling that his missing hand was
itchy.

"The world is filled with idiots," he raved furiously. "I'm tired and
I'm hungry. I skipped luncheon and I've been too busy to think of
dinner."

He walked back to his taxicab and returned to the hotel where, hope
springing eternal in his breast, he called Prospect 3249 again and
discovered that the missing Herman Joost had returned to the bosom of
his family. To him the frantic Peck delivered the message of B. Cohn,
whereupon the cautious Herman Joost replied that he would confirm the
authenticity of the message by telephoning to Mr. Cohn at Mr. Simon's
home in Mill Valley. If Mr. B. Cohn or Cohen confirmed Mr. Kek's story
he, the said Herman Joost, would be at the store sometime before nine
o'clock, and if Mr. Kek cared to, he might await him there.

Mr. Kek said he would be delighted to wait for him there.

At nine-fifteen Herman Joost appeared on the scene. On his way down the
street he had taken the precaution to pick up a policeman and bring him
along with him. The lights were switched on in the store and Mr. Joost
lovingly abstracted the blue vase from the window.

"What's the cursed thing worth?" Peck demanded.

"Two thousand dollars," Mr. Joost replied without so much as the quiver
of an eyelash. "Cash," he added, apparently as an afterthought.

The exhausted Peck leaned against the sturdy guardian of the law and
sighed. This was the final straw. He had about ten dollars in his
possession.

"You refuse, absolutely, to accept my check?" he quavered.

"I don't know you, Mr. Peck," Herman Joost replied simply.

"Where's your telephone?"

Mr. Joost led Peck to the telephone and the latter called up Mr.
Skinner.

"Mr. Skinner," he announced, "this is all that is mortal of Bill Peck
speaking. I've got the store open and for two thousand dollars--cash--I
can buy the blue vase Mr. Ricks has set his heart upon."

"Oh, Peck, dear fellow," Mr. Skinner purred sympathetically. "Have you
been all t