ho she's goin' to wish a pink and white shawl onto in this weather is a
myst'ry.

"It's for a sufferer--isn't that enough?" says she.

"From what--chilblains on the ears?" says I.

"Silly!" says she. "There! Didn't I tell you to bend your thumbs? How
awkward!"

"Who, me?" says I. "Why, for a first attempt I thought I was puttin' up
a real classy performance. Say, lemme wind awhile, and let's see you try
this yarn-jugglin' act."

She won't, though; so it's me sittin' there playin' dummy, with my arms
held out stiff and my eyes roamin' around restless.

Which is how I happen to spot this folder with the halftone cut on it.
It's been tossed casual on the table, and the picture is wrong side to
from where I am; but even then there's something mighty familiar about
it. I wiggles around to get a better view, and lets half a dozen loops
of yarn slip off at a time.

"Stupid!" says Vee, runnin' her tongue out at me.

"Didn't I tell you you'd do better by drapin' it over a chair back?"
says I. "But say, time out while I snoop into something. Who's the girl
with the press notice stuff?" and I points an elbow at the halftone.

"That?" says she. "Oh, some concert singer, I think. Let's see.
Yes--Miss Elsa Hampton. She's to give a benefit song recital in the
Plutoria pink room for the Belgian war orphans, tickets two dollars.
Want to go?" And Vee flips the folder into my lap.

Gettin' the picture right side to, I lets out a whistle. No mistakin'
that. "Sure I want to go," says I.

"Why?" says Vee.

"Well, for one thing," says I, "she has china blue eyes that widen out
when they look at you, and a queer, quirky little smile that----"

"How thrilling!" says Vee. "You must know her very well."

"Almost that," says I. "Anyway, I know someone that did know her very
well--once."

"Oh!" says Vee, forgettin' all about the yarn windin' and hitchin' her
chair up close. "That does sound interesting. I hope it isn't a deep
secret."

"If it wa'n't," says I, "what would be the fun in tellin' it to you?"

"Goody!" says Vee. "Who is the poor man who knew her once but doesn't
any more?"

"Whisper!" says I. "It's Mr. Bob Ellins!"

"Wha-a-at!" gasps Vee. "Do you really mean it?"

I'd pulled a sensation, all right, and for the next half-hour she keeps
me busy tryin' to explain the details of a situation I hadn't more'n
half sketched out myself.

"Kept a miniature of her on his desk!" Vee rattles on. "And it hadn't
been opened