“While I’m thus sentimentalizing,” Barnes hurried on, “enter—three-fingered Bill.”
“Bah,” interrupted the aunt again.
“The name isn’t mine,” he explained, “I stole it from a magazine story. Besides, Bill was falsely so called—they neglected to count his thumb. Bill is a rough dog with whiskers like an anarchist but with a kindly heart beating beneath his faded pink sweater. This was a relic of the days when he served as a rubber down at prize fights.”
“A pleasant companion,” snorted Aunt Philomela.
“A useful one, at any rate. He greets me with a cheery ‘Hello, pard, back in the home camp?’ I guiltily thrust the packet aside and we come down to business on how most advantageously to use our relatives in the matter of the gorgeous stock certificates.”
“So Bill was responsible for that!” exclaimed the aunt.
“Responsible?”
“For disposing of that worthless paper.”
She checked herself quickly.
“I hope,” she added, “that you didn’t hint to Mr. Van Patten what I inadvertently let drop about ‘The Lucky Find.’”