de that deduction myself within the next half hour. The fellow
must be swinging away on the top of some nearby building. Let's see if
we can locate him."

Nobody could, though. Plenty of roofs in sight, from five to ten stories
lower than the Corrugated buildin', but no mashie maniac in evidence.
And while they're scoutin' around I takes another squint at the ball.

"Say, Mr. Ellins," I calls out, "if it was shot from a roof how do you
dope out this grass stain on it?"

"Eh?" says Old Hickory. "Grass stain! Must be an old one. No, by the
green turban of Hafiz, it's perfectly fresh! Even a bit of moist earth
where the fellow took a divot. Young man, that knocks out your roof
practice theory. Now how in the name of the Secret Seven could this
happen? The nearest turf is in the park, across Broadway. But no golfer
would be reckless enough to try out a shot from there. Besides, this
came from a southerly direction. Well, son, what have you to offer?"

"Me?" says I, stallin' around a bit and lookin' surprised. "Oh, I
didn't know I'd been assigned to the case of the mysterious golf ball."

"You have," says Old Hickory. "You seem to be so clever in deducing
things and the rest of us so stupid. Here take another look at the ball.
I presume that if you had a magnifying glass you could tell where it
came from and what the man looked like who hit it. Eh?"

"Oh, sure!" says I, grinnin'. "That is, in an hour or so."

That's the only way to get along with Old Hickory; when he starts
kiddin' you shoot the josh right back at him. I lets on to be examinin'
the ball careful.

"I expect you didn't notice the marks on it?" says I.

"Where?" says he, gettin' out his glasses. "Oh, yes! The fellow has
used an indelible pencil to put his initials on it. I often do that
myself, so the caddies can't sell me my own balls. He's made 'em rather
faint, but I can make out the letters. H. A. And to be sure, he's put
'em on twice."

"Yes," says I, "they might be initials, and then again they might be
meant to spell out something. My guess would be 'Ha, ha!'"

"What!" says Old Hickory. "By the Sizzling Sisters, you're right! A
message! But from whom?"

"Why not from Minnie?" I asks winkin' at Mr. Robert.

"Minnie who?" demands Old Hickory.

"Why, from Minnehaha?" says I, and I can hear Piddie gasp at my pullin'
anything like that on the president of the Corrugated Trust.

Old Hickory must have heard him, too, for he shrugs his shoulders