"Just a moment," says Old Hickory. "You are to explain to Mrs.

Bagstock fully: a.s.sure her that in the long run she will not be the loser, and so on. As courteously as you know how. And--er--if in the course of the interview you should happen to learn her given name--er--just remember it."

"Such as Ella May or Josephine?"

"No!" he snaps. "Natalie. Now clear out."

Ain't he the foxy old pirate, though? Sendin' me off on a sleuthin'

expedition without givin' up a hint as to what it's all about! Was it some back-number romance that this lilac-dipped note had reminded him of? More likely there'd been some Bagstock or other who'd double-crossed him in a deal and he'd never found a chance to get square. Anyway, he's after a confidential report, so off I pikes.

My troubles began right at the start. I had to hunt the address up on a city map, and when I'd located it on the lower West Side, down in the warehouse district, I'm sure of one thing--this Mrs. Bagstock can't be such-a-much. If I had any doubts they was knocked out by the sign hung alongside the front door--"Furnished Rooms."

I expect it had been quite a decent old house in its day--one of these full-width brick affairs, with fancy iron grill-work on either side of the brownstone steps and a fan-light over the door. There was even an old-fashioned bell-pull that was almost equal to a wall exerciser for workin' up your muscle. I was still pumpin' away energetic, not hearin' any results inside, when the door is jerked open, and a perky young female with the upper part of her face framed in kid curlers and a baby-blue boudoir cap glares at me unpleasant.

"Humph!" says she. "Tryin' to play 'Rag-Time Temple Bells,' are you?"

"Then I did register a tinkle, did I?" says I.

"Tinkle! More like a riot call," says she. "Want to look at rooms?"

"Not exactly," says I. "You see, I'm representin'--"

"Are you?" she crashes in crisp. "Well, say, you fresh agents are goin' to overwork this comedy cut-up act with our bell one of these times. Go on. Shoot it. What you want to wish on us--instalment player-piano, electric dish-washer, magazine subscriptions, or--"

"Excuse me," I cuts in, producin' the letter; "but, while you're a grand little guesser, your start is all wrong. I came to see Mrs.

Bagstock about this. Lives here, don't she?"

"Oh, Auntie?" says the young party in the boudoir cap. "Then I guess you can come in. Now, lemme see. What's this all about? H-m-m-m!

Stocks, eh? Just a jiffy while I go through this."

Durin' which I've been shooed into the parlor. Some parlor it is, too.

I don't know when I've seen a room that came so near whinin' about better days gone by. Every piece of furniture, from the threadbare sofa to the rickety center table, seems kind of sad and sobby.

Nothing old-timey about this young female that's studyin' out Mrs.

Bagstock's letter. Barrin' the floppy cap, she's costumed zippy enough in what I should judge was a last fall's tango dress. As she reads she yanks gum industrious.

"Say," she breaks out, "this is all Dutch to me. Who's bein' called down, anyway?"

"We are," says I. "The Corrugated Trust. I'm private sec. there.

I've come around to show Mrs. Bagstock where she's sized us up wrong, and if I could have five minutes' talk with her--"

"Well, you can't, that's all," says the young lady. "So speed up and tell it to me."

Course, I wasn't doin' that. We holds quite a debate on the subject without my scorin' any points at all. She tells me how she's a niece by marriage of Mrs. Bagstock, and the unregrettin' widow of the late d.i.c.k McCloud, who up to a year ago was the only survivin' relative of his dear aunt.

"And he wasn't much good at that, if I do say it," announces Tessie, snappin' her black eyes. "I don't deny he had me buffaloed for a while there, throwin' the bull about his rich aunt that was goin' to leave him a fortune. Huh! This is the fortune--this old furnished-room joint that's mortgaged up to the eaves and ain't had a roomer in three months. Hot fortune, ain't it? And here I am stranded with a batty old dame, two blocks below Christopher."

"Waitin' to inherit?" I asks innocent.

"Why not?" says Tessie. "I stood for d.i.c.k McCloud 'most three years.

That ought to call for some pension, hadn't it? I don't mind sayin', too, it ain't one long May-day festival, this bein' buried alive with Aunt Nutty."

"Meanin' Mrs. Bagstock?" says I.

She nods. "One of d.i.c.k's little cracks," says she. "Her real name is Natalie."

I expect my ears did a reg'lar rabbit motion at that. So this was the one? Well, I'd got to have a look at her!

"Eh?" says I. "Did you say Natalie?"

"Aunt Nutty's a better fit, though," says Tessie.

"Ah, come!" says I. "She don't write so batty. And anybody who can notice the difference between fourteen per cent. dividends and three and a half ain't so far gone."

"Oh, you never could work off any wooden money on her," admits Tessie.

"Her grip on a dollar is sump'n fierce; that is, until it comes to settin' the stage for one of her third Wednesdays."

"Her which?" says I.

"If it was anything I could cover up," says Tessie, "you bet I'd deny it. But anybody on the block could put you wise. So, if you must know, every third Wednesday Aunt Nutty goes through the motions of pullin' off a pink tea. Uh-huh! It's all complete: the big silver urn polished up and steaming sandwiches and cakes made, flowers about, us all dolled up--and n.o.body to it! Oh, it's a scream!"

"But don't anyone come?" says I.

"Hardly," says Tessie, "unless you count Mrs. Fizzenmeyer, the delicatessen lady; or Madame Tebeau, the little hairdresser; or the Schmitt girls, from the corner bakery. They pretend to take Auntie almost as serious as she takes herself. Lately, though, even that bunch has stopped. You can't blame 'em. It may be funny for once or twice. After that--well, it begins to get ghastly. Specially with the old girl askin' me continual to watch out the window and see if the Van Pyles haven't driven up yet, or the Rollinses, or the Pitt-Smiths. If that ain't nutty, now what is?"

"The third Wednesday, eh?" says I. "That's to-morrow, ain't it?"

"Sure," says Tessie. "Which is why you can't see her to-day. She's in trainin' for the big event--y'understand?"

"But I'd like to set her mind easy on this stock proposition," says I.

"Wish you could," says Tessie. "She's been stewin' a lot over something or other. Must be that. And I could take you up to her if you was on the list."

"What list?" I asks.

"Her doctor, her solicitor, her banker," says Tessie, checkin' 'em off on her fingers.

"Say," says I, "couldn't I ring in as one of her bankers? Then I could get this off my chest and not have to come again."

"I'll put it up to her," says Tessie. "Got a business card on you?"

I had, an engraved one. Maybe that's what did the trick, for Tessie comes back smilin'.

"But it'll take me half an hour or so to fix her up," says she. "She's dreadful fussy about her looks."

"I got all day," says I.

But at that it seemed like I'd been shut up in that sobby parlor for a month when Tessie finally gives me the word. "Come along," says she.

"And don't forget to make a noise like a banker."