usual
denomination. Put your name on the picture for purposes of
identification.

Yours as ever,
THE IKUNAHKATSI."

"This is the return I get for the money I have paid you!" said George
Deaves reproachfully.

"It's a bluff!" said Evan.

"Can you assure me of that?"

"I can't swear to it of course. Mr. Deaves gives me the slip once in a
while. And there was one day I was not with him. But he says he
didn't go out that day. I'm sure it's a bluff. If they had a new
story on him they'd send it fast enough."

"Maybe they're going to print the last one."

"Maybe. But in that case why not say so? They have shown a queer
sense of honour heretofore in suggesting that when you paid for a story
that was done with. Have you got the envelope this came in?"

George Deaves handed it over. It was of medium size and made of cheap
"Irish linen" paper. The post-mark was Hamilton Grange. A small
peculiarity that Evan marked was that though it had been sent from a
New York post-office the words "New York City" were written in full.

"What do you think about this Mrs. Drayton?" asked Deaves.

"A woman above suspicion. They're using her as they used Hassell.
Easy enough to plant somebody in the Red Cross shop to watch the
packages received. Someone to buy the picture you send."

"You advise me to ignore this then?"

"No, if it was me I'd call their bluff. Have a better moral effect.
Get an old picture from somewhere and stick a piece of paper in the
back. The fellow who wrote this letter fancies himself as a humorist.
Answer him in kind. Write on the paper: 'Show me first your wares.'"

"What does that mean?" asked George Deaves innocently.

"A quotation from Simple Simon," answered Evan grinning.

The other man hung in a painful state of indecision, biting his nails.
At last he said breathlessly with a tremendous effort of resolution:
"Very well, I'll do it."

But the gang proved to have another shot in its locker. Next morning
Evan was sent for again to the library where he found a family conclave
in session. The gorgeous Maud in purple velvet and pearls ("How does
she get the money out of them?" thought Evan) was detonating like a
thunderstorm in the hills. George Deaves sat crushed at his desk, and
the old man sputtered and snarled when he could get a word in. Maud
(it was impossible for Evan to think of her by a more respectful name)
promptly turned to discharge her lightnings at Evan's he