hott, wavin' me
off with a yellow-gloved hand.

"Of course," says I. "One moment, please. I'll find out if he's in. And
if you have any letters, or anything like that--"

"I prefer to present my credentials in person," says he.

"Sorry," says I. "Rules of the office. Saves time, you know. If you
don't mind--" and I holds out my hand for the letter.

He gives it up reluctant and I backs out. Another minute and I've shoved
in where Old Hickory is chewin' a cigar butt savage while he pencils a
joker clause into a million-dollar contract.

"Excuse me, sir," says I, "but you were expectin' a party from the
Belgian Commission, were you?"

"No," snaps Old Hickory. "Nor from the Persian Shah, or the Sultan of
Sulu, or the Ahkoond of Swat. All I'm expecting, young man, is a half
hour of comparative peace, and I don't get it. There's Matt. Dowd in the
next room waiting like the Ancient Mariner to grip me by the sleeve and
pour out a long tale about what he calls his discovery of psychic golf.
Say, son, couldn't you----"

"I've heard it, you know, sir," says I.

Old Hickory groans. "That's so," says he. "Well then, why don't you find
me a substitute? Suffering Cicero, has that inventive brain of yours
gone into a coma!"

"Not quite, sir," says I. "You don't happen to know a Mr. Schott, do
you?"

"Gr-r-r!" says Old Hickory, as gentle as a grizzly with a sore ear. "Get
out!"

I took the hint and trickled through the door. I was just framin' up
something polite to feed Mr. Schott when it strikes me I might take a
peek at this little note from the Belgian consul. It wasn't much, merely
suggests that he hopes Mr. Ellins will be interested in what Mr. Schott
has to say. There's the consul general's signature at the bottom, too.
Yes. And I was foldin' it up to tuck it back into the envelope
when--well, that's what comes of my early trainin' on the Sunday edition
when the proof readers used to work me in now and then to hold copy.
It's a funny thing, but I notice that the Consul General doesn't spell
his name when he writes it the way he has it printed at the top of his
letterhead.

"Might be a slip by the fool engraver," thinks I. "I'll look it up in
the directory."

And the directory agreed with the letterhead.

"Oh, ho!" says I. "Pullin' the old stuff, eh? Easy enough to drop into
the Consul's office and dash off a note to anybody. Say, lemme at this
Schott person."

No, I didn't call in Pat, the porter, and have h