tou answers:

"She goes at seven."

"Whaddye mean goes?" says I. "It ain't a habit of hers, is it?"

Leon nods.

"All this week," says he. "She goes to the meat and grocery
establishment, I understand."

"Belcher's?" says I. "But what--what's the idea?"

"I think it would be best if M'sieur asked Madame," says he.

"That's right, too," says I.

You can guess I was some puzzled. Was Vee doin' the spy act on Belcher,
watchin' him open the store and spendin' the forenoon concealed in a
crockery crate or something? No, that didn't sound reasonable. But what
the---- Meanwhile I was leggin' it down towards the village.

It's a busy place, Belcher's, specially on Saturday forenoon. Out front
three or four delivery trucks was bein' loaded up, and inside a lot of
clerks was jumpin' round. Among the customers was two Jap butlers, three
or four Swedish maids, and some of the women from the village. But no
Vee anywhere in sight.

Loomin' prominent in the midst of all this active tradin' is Belcher
himself, a thick-necked, ruddy-cheeked party, with bristly black hair
cut shoe-brush style and growing down to a point in front. His big,
bulgy eyes are cold and fishy, but they seem to take in everything
that's goin' on. I hadn't been standin' around more'n half a minute
before he snaps his finger, and a clerk comes hustlin' over to ask what
I'll have.

"Box of ginger-snaps," says I offhand; and a minute later I'm bein'
shunted towards a wire-cage with a cash slip in my hand.

I'd dug up a quarter, and was waitin' for the change to be passed out
through the little window, when I hears a familiar snicker. Then I
glances in to see who's presidin' at the cash register. And say, of all
the sudden jolts I ever got! It's Vee.

"Well, for the love of soup!" I gasps.

"Twelve out--thirteen. That's right, isn't it? Thank you so much, sir,"
says she, her gray eyes twinklin'.

"Quit the kiddin'," says I, "and sketch out the plot of the piece."

"Can't now," says Vee. "So run along. Please!"

"But how long does this act of yours last?" I insists.

"Until about noon, I think," says she. "It's such fun. You can't
imagine."

"What's it for, though?" says I. "Are you pullin' a sleuth stunt on----"

"S-s-s-sh!" warns Vee. "He's coming. Pretend to be getting a bill
changed or something."

It's while I'm fishin' out a ten that this little dialogue at the meat
counter begins to get conspicuous: A thin, stoop-shouldered female with