at the House-smiths' bazaar," said Indiman. "Also repeated in to-day's
issue."

"It seems to be bearing a fine crop of replies."

"There's a bushel-basket of 'em already--mostly from the alleged
humorist. Or else it's this sort of thing," and he tossed over an
extraordinary piece of stationery--white cream-laid, with edging like a
mourning band, only pink instead of black; think of that!

Of course, the contents of the letter did not belie its exterior. "Mr.
House-smith" was informed that not only ninety-nine, but nine hundred
and ninety-nine, kisses were at his disposal whenever he cared to
communicate with Miss Delicia Millefleurs. The writing was somewhat
shaky, and "communicate" was spelled with one m. Moreover, the general
appearance of the epistle was marred by the presence of a large blot.
But Miss Millefleurs was plainly a young person of instant ingenuity,
and she had turned the disfigurement to good purpose by drawing a
circle around it and labelling it, "One on account."

"Then there's this," said Indiman, and handed me a sheet of foolscap
which had been folded and sealed without an envelope, after the fashion
of our great-grandfathers. On it was pasted a strip of the tape used in
electric-recording instruments, and the characters were those of the
Morse alphabet, rather an unusual sight nowadays, when receiving
messages by sound is the universal practice. Underneath the row of dots
and dashes had been written their English equivalents in Indiman's
small, close handwriting. The transcribed message read:

"One thousand (s) dollars apiece (s) offered for any or all of
ninety-nine (s) kisses, undelivered. Take car No. 6 (s), 'Blue Line'
crosstown, any (s) evening, and get off at West Fourth Street. Purchase
two pounds of the best (s) butter at the corner grocery, and ask for a
purple trading (s) stamp."

"Quite as extravagant as the advertisement that called it forth," I
remarked. "To the wholly impartial mind it seems like nonsense."

"'Ah, but what precious nonsense!'" quoted Indiman, musingly. Then,
suddenly: "Thorp, we need butter; I wish you'd step around to that West
Fourth Street grocery and get a couple of pounds--the best butter,
mind."

I rose. "Certainly; back in half an hour."

"Oh, this evening is time enough. Man, man, can't you see through a
ladder? They're after the girl with the gray eyes, and hope in this way
to get a clew to her whereabouts. Now, you can't fight shadows; the
only ch