[CHAPTER XI—THE INITIAL H]
“Why, do you suppose I dreamed all night of mandolins?” questioned Peggy, sitting up in bed with a blanket hugged around her shoulders next morning.
“Why, because,” said Katharine, “the clairvoyant woman said that she saw a young man in a college room playing a mandolin,—you remember? And he answers all the rest of her requirements, the walking in the cold, the meeting the girl—you, and the rose-tree incident. Now, Peg, did you think to ask him if he played the mandolin?”
“No,” said Peggy contritely, gingerly testing the cold floor with her bare feet, “no,—and how are we going to find out now?”
“You’re a fine Sherlock,” cried Katherine, “but, then, it’s always the Watsons of this world that do the real work while the Sherlocks get the credit.”
“I have just one clue,” sighed Peggy humbly.
“Well?”
“The boys at the tea house called him Jim.”
“Jim!” repeated Katherine in keen disappointment and disgust. “Not an H in it!”
“No,” Peggy agreed, “and there are so many Jims.”