rty endorsement, anyway, when I submit it to him.
He likes crooks with imagination, I know, and this bird has it. I wish
you had brought along that note you got from him."

"I did." The tanner reached into his pocket and drew forth the message
that he had found in the deft stick. "I decided to fetch it as long as
I intended to tell you the story."

Krech accepted the bit of brown paper, carefully taking it by the tip
of one corner and opening it with a shake. He held it out for Jason to
read, but drew it back from the other's outstretched hand.

"Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!"

"Fingerprints?" grunted Varr skeptically.

"It's a possibility we must consider," insisted the big man firmly. "I
don't believe there are any, sort of pity if there were."

"Pity, eh? What do you mean, pity?"

"It would cheapen our crook. I don't believe he's the lad to leave
clues." He added calmly, "Hush, now, and let me read this carefully."

Simon gasped and hushed. He consoled himself with the reflection that
this human mastodon probably knew what it was about.

"Well, I'm hanged!" blurted Jason Bolt, when he had perused the
missive. "What do you make of it, Krech?"

"Why, there are a number of curious features about it that leap to the
eye," said Mr. Krech blandly. "I will call them to Creighton's
attention, of course." He stepped to Varr's desk, helped himself to an
unused envelope and inserted the note. "How many other people have
touched this paper besides yourself, Mr. Varr?"

"Not a soul. I've shown it to no one."

"Oh, that's fine." He picked up a clean letterhead and held it out to
the tanner. "Ink your thumbs and forefingers on that pad there and
then press them on this." He waited until Simon had gruntingly obeyed.
"Good. These will identify your marks on the message, and if there are
any others they will be the sign manual of our crook."

"How can you be sure?" argued Jason. "It's obviously an old scrap of
paper and a dozen people may have handled it before the crook got hold
of it."

Mr. Krech regarded his friend with a look of dignified annoyance.

"There's always some one around to make difficulties," he said
severely. "You're a fly on the wheel of progress."

"Excuse me for living," begged the fly meekly. Then he looked at his
watch and exclaimed, "Hello. Our wives, Krech, our wives--! We're
late for lunch already! Drop you anywhere, Simon?"

"I have my car." The tanner glanced a