“Alexandra local five forty-six perfect. What price? Answer quick.”
“Who's Olds?” asked the Little Red Doctor.
“Olds? Doncher know Olds?” cried Inky Mike. “The oil king? The multamillionaire?”
“What has this to do with us?” I asked. “It seems to be some oil quotation. What does Alexandra local' mean?”
“Search me!” offered the amateur sleuth. “But don'choo fool yourself! It's your business, awright. He snook out after you went, shakin' all over.”
Mr. Boggs, who from the first had been profoundly impressed by his Duchess's tradition-inspired estimate of the autograph, nodded a sagacious head. “Trust old Schep!” he fluted.
“When I've his money in hand; not before,” grunted the Little Red Doctor.
When we called at the dingy and lonely flat on the following morning, Schepstein's face was a mask of smiling craft.
“It's worth possibly—pos-sib-bly fifteen dollars as a spec,” he said.
“No,” cheeped Mr. Boggs.