"That," I exclaimed, "sounds interesting!"
It was patent, however, that Milton Rhodes was not looking forward to the meeting with any particular enthusiasm.
"It may sound interesting," he said; "but will it prove so? That is the question, Bill. To some people, you know, some very funny things constitute a mystery. Mr. James W. Scranton's mystery may prove to belong to that species. We must wait and see. Said that he had heard of me, that, as I have a gift (that is what he called it, Bill, a gift) of solving puzzles and mysteries, whether scientific, psychic, spooky or otherwise—well, he had a story to tell me that would eclipse any I ever had heard, a mystery that would drive Sherlock Holmes himself to suicide. Yes, that's what he really said, Bill—the great Sherlock himself to suicide."
"That's coming big!" I said.
Milton Rhodes smiled wanly.
"We haven't heard his yarn yet. We can't come to a judgment on such uncertain data."
"Scranton," said I. "Scranton. Hold on a minute."
"What is it now?"
"Wonder if he belongs to the old Scranton family."
"Never heard of it, Bill."