o my
regret,"--here he paused and glared at Sol Witberg--"in each of these
cases I am compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt.
Gentlemen, you are both dismissed."

"Let us have a nip on it," Watson said to Witberg, as they left the
courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to
the nearest saloon.

WINGED BLACKMAIL

PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes,
deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near
future to make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up. The
central idea had come to him the night before, and he was now reveling
in the planning of the remoter, minor details. By obtaining control of a
certain up-country bank, two general stores, and several logging camps,
he could come into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall
here be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a
vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileage almost than
there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater. It was so simple
that he had almost laughed aloud when it came to him. No wonder those
astute and ancient enemies of his had passed it by.

The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and
eye glassed, entered. In his hands was an envelope and an open letter.
As Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and
classify his employer's mail.

"This came in the morning post," he ventured apologetically and with
the hint of a titter. "Of course it doesn't amount to anything, but I
thought you would like to see it."

"Read it," Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes.

The secretary cleared his throat.

"It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark San
Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is atrocious. Here
it is:

"Mr. Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth
good money. She's a loo-loo--"

"What is a loo-loo?" Peter Winn interrupted.

The secretary tittered.

"I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of some
sort. The letter continues:

"Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go.
If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you dont you will be sorry.

"That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you."

"Has the pigeon come?" Peter Winn demanded.

"I'm sure I never thought to enquire."

"Then do so."

In five minut