s later," says Mr.
Ellins.

"Yes; but what kind of clothes was he wearin'?" says I.

"Clothes!" snorts out Old Hickory. "What the blithering----"

"Lemme ask his man," says I, grabbin' the desk 'phone. "Plaza--yes,
Plaza, double O double three sixty-one. Sure! You got it. Say, Mr.
Ellins, that butler of yours don't burn the carpet movin' fast, does he?
He must----Hello! I want to talk to Walters. Ah, never mind who I am,
switch him on!" And inside of two minutes I have the report. "Frock coat
and silk lid," says I. "See? Society date."

"Huh!" says the old man. "That settles it. He's tagging around after
that young lady violinist again. Might have guessed; for since she's
come back from Paris he has taken about as much interest in business as
a cat does in astronomy. But to-morrow morning we'll----"

"Say," I breaks in, "if it's a case of young lady, why not locate her
and then scout for Mr. Robert in the neighborhood? That ought to be
easy."

"Think so?" says he. "Well, young man, you have my permission to tackle
the job. Her name is Inez Webster. I don't know where she lives, or with
whom she's staying; but she's somewhere in New York. Now, how will you
begin?"

"By rubberin' at Mr. Robert's date pad," says I.

"Good!" says Old Hickory. "No one else thought of that," and he leads
the way in and unlocks Mr. Robert's rolltop. "Now what do those
scratches mean?"

"I. W. 2:15," says I, readin' it off. "The arrow points to Inez. He must
be with her now."

"Wherever that is!" growls Mr. Ellins. "Go on."

"Say, lemme think a minute," says I, slippin' into the swing chair and
doin' the Sherlock gaze at the desk.

"Oh, certainly!" says he, snappy and sarcastic. "Take a nap over it!
Plenty of time!" and with that he pads back into his office and slams
the door.

Now I didn't like pawin' through the pigeon-holes or drawers; but when I
happens to glance at the waste basket I feels more at home. In a jiffy I
has it dumped on the rug. There was an empty cigarette box, the usual
collection of circulars, a dozen torn business letters, and so on. It
looked like a hopeless hunt, too, until I runs across this invitation
card announcin' that the Misses Pulsifer will be at home from
two-fifteen until five-thirty. There's a Fort Washington Road address,
and down in one corner it says "music." Also to-day's the day.

"Whoop!" says I, stowin' away the card. "Me for the Misses Pulsifers' on
a long shot. Hey, Mr. Ellins!" I