Must have been about three o'clock that afternoon, and I'd just finished a session in the gym, when who should show up at the studio but Twombley-Crane. What do you suppose? Why, in spite of the fact that I'd sent the picture without any name or anything, he'd been so excited over gettin' it that he'd rung up the messenger office and bluffed 'em into tellin' where the call had come in from. And as long as I'd known him I've never seen Twombley-Crane thaw out so much. Why, he acts almost human as he shakes hands! Then he takes the package from under his arm and unwraps it.
"The Whistler that I'd given up all hope of ever getting!" says he, gazin' at it admirin' and enthusiastic.
"So?" says I, non-committal.
"And now it appears mysteriously, sent from here," says he. "Why, my dear fellow, how can I ever——"
"You don't have to," I breaks in, "because it wa'n't from me at all."
"But they told me at the district office," he goes on, "that the call came from——"
"I know," says I. "That's straight enough as far as it goes. But you know that ain't in my line. I was only passin' it on for someone else."
"That's tellin'," says I. "It's a secret."
"Oh, but I must know," says he, "to whom I am indebted so deeply. You don't realize, McCabe, how delighted I am to get hold of this gem of Whistler's. Why, it makes my collection the most complete to be found in any private gallery!"