ssion on
the next--was more'n I could dope out. But inside of an hour I had the
answer. A messenger boy shows up with a package. It's the sketch from
Steele, with a note sayin' I might send it to Twombley-Crane, if that
would answer. He'd be hanged if he would! So I rings up another boy and
ships it down to Twombley-Crane's office, as the easiest way of gettin'
rid of it. I didn't know whether he was in town or not. If he wa'n't,
he'd find the thing when he did come in. And while maybe that don't
quite cover all the specifications, it's near enough so I can let it
pass. Then I goes out to lunch.

Must have been about three o'clock that afternoon, and I'd just finished
a session in the gym, when who should show up at the studio but
Twombley-Crane. What do you suppose? Why, in spite of the fact that I'd
sent the picture without any name or anything, he'd been so excited over
gettin' it that he'd rung up the messenger office and bluffed 'em into
tellin' where the call had come in from. And as long as I'd known him
I've never seen Twombley-Crane thaw out so much. Why, he acts almost
human as he shakes hands! Then he takes the package from under his arm
and unwraps it.

"The Whistler that I'd given up all hope of ever getting!" says he,
gazin' at it admirin' and enthusiastic.

"So?" says I, non-committal.

"And now it appears mysteriously, sent from here," says he. "Why, my
dear fellow, how can I ever----"

"You don't have to," I breaks in, "because it wa'n't from me at all."

"But they told me at the district office," he goes on, "that the call
came from----"

"I know," says I. "That's straight enough as far as it goes. But you
know that ain't in my line. I was only passin' it on for someone else."

"For whom?" he demands.

"That's tellin'," says I. "It's a secret."

"Oh, but I must know," says he, "to whom I am indebted so deeply. You
don't realize, McCabe, how delighted I am to get hold of this gem of
Whistler's. Why, it makes my collection the most complete to be found in
any private gallery!"

"Well, you ought to be satisfied then," says I. "Why not let it go at
that?"

But not him. No, he'd got to thank somebody; to pay 'em, if he could.

"How much, for instance?" says I.

"Why, I should readily have given five thousand for it," says he; "ten,
if necessary."

"Not fifteen?" says I.

"I think I would," says he.

"Huh!" says I. "Some folks don't care what they do with money. We'll
split the diff'r