feathers when she wants to. Inside
of two minutes she had Mame smilin' grateful and holdin' her hand as she
says good-by.

"Poor girl!" says Vee, as we gets to the street. "I don't blame her for
being dissatisfied with such a father as that. And it's just awful the
way they talk about her. I'm going to see if I can't do something for
her at the shop."

"Eh?" says I. "She didn't tell you where she was working."

"She didn't need to," says Vee. "The name was in the hat lining--the
Maison Noir."

"Say, you're some grand little sleuth yourself, ain't you?" says I.

"And that explains," Vee goes on, "why I happened to remember the
Stribbles today. I must have seen her there. Yes, I'm sure I did--that
pale gold hair and the old ivory complexion are too rare to----"

"Why!" I breaks in, "that's the description Crosby Rhodes gave me of
this show window charmer of his."

"Was it?" says Vee. "Then perhaps----"

"But what could she have been doing, posin' in the window?" I asks.
"That's what gets me."

It got Vee, too. "Anyway," says she, "you must meet that Mr. Rhodes
tomorrow and tell him what you've discovered. He's rather a nice chap,
isn't he?"

"Oh, he's all right, I guess," says I. "A bit soft above the ears,
maybe, but out in the tall timber I expect he passes for a solid
citizen. I don't just see how I'm going to help him out much, though."

"I'll tell you," says Vee. "In the morning I will 'phone to Madame
Maurice that I want you to see the frock I've picked out, and you can
take Mr. Rhodes in with you."

So that's the way we worked it. I calls up Crosby, makes the date, and
we meets on the corner at twelve-thirty. He's more or less excited.

"Then you think you know who she is?" he asks.

"If you're a good describer," says I, "there's a chance that I do. But
listen: suppose she's kind of out of your class--a girl who's been
brought up in a basement, say, with a janitor for a father?"

"What do I care who her father is?" says Crosby. "I was brought up in a
lumber camp myself. All I ask is a chance to meet her."

"You sure know what you want," says I. "Come on."

"See!" he whispers as we get to the Maison Noir's show window. "She's
there!"

And sure enough, standin' back to, over in the corner facin' the mirror,
is this classy figure in the zippy street dress, with Mame Stribble's
hair and eyes. She's doin' the dummy act well, too. I couldn't see
either breath or eye flutter.

"Huh!" says I. "It's