over in response to your message," he said. "About selling
your collection."

Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought.

"Do you want to buy it?" he said.

"To buy it?" said Roger, a little peevishly. "Why, no. I came over to
appraise it for you. Your secretary telephoned me on Saturday."

"My dear sir," replied the other, "there must be some mistake. I have
no intention of selling my collection. I never sent you a message."

Roger was aghast.

"Why," he exclaimed, "your secretary called me up on Saturday and said
you particularly wanted me to come over this morning, to examine your
books with you. I've made the trip from Brooklyn for that purpose."

Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came into the
office. "Miss Patterson," he said, "did you telephone to Mr. Mifflin
of Brooklyn on Saturday, asking him----"

"It was a man that telephoned," said Roger.

"I'm exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin," said Mr. Oldham. "More sorry
than I can tell you--I'm afraid someone has played a trick on you. As
I told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I have no idea of
selling my books, and have never authorized any one even to suggest
such a thing."

Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the part of some
of the Corn Cob Club, he thought to himself. He flushed painfully to
recall the simplicity of his glee.

"Please don't be embarrassed," said Mr. Oldham, seeing the little man's
vexation. "Don't let's consider the trip wasted. Won't you come out
and dine with me in the country this evening, and see my things?"

But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous as it was.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm rather busy
at home, and only came over because I believed this to be urgent."

"Some other time, perhaps," said Mr. Oldham. "Look here, you're a
bookseller? I don't believe I know your shop. Give me your card. The
next time I'm in New York I'd like to stop in."

Roger got away as quickly as the other's politeness would let him. He
chafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position. Not until he
reached the street again did he breathe freely.

"Some of Jerry Gladfist's tomfoolery, I'll bet a hat," he muttered.
"By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I'll make him smart for it."

Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that Roger was angry.

"Something's got his goat," he reflected. "I wonder what he's peeved
about?"