"The whole afternoon, if you'll solve the mystery," says he. "I am going out to luncheon now. When I come back——"
"That ought to be time enough," says I.
Course nine-tenths of that was pure bluff. All I had mapped out then was just a hunch for startin' to work. When they'd all left the private office I wanders over for another look from the punctured window. The lower sash had been pushed half-way up when the golf ball hit it, and the shade had been pulled about two-thirds down. It was while I was runnin' the shade clear to the top that I discovers this square of red cardboard hung in the middle of the top sash.
"Hah!" says I. "Had the window marked, did he?"
Simple enough to see that a trick of that kind called for an inside confederate. Who? Next minute I'm dashin' out to catch Tony, who runs express elevator No. 3.
"Were the window washers at work on our floor this mornin'?" says I.
"Sure!" says Tony, "What you miss?"
"It was a case of direct hit," says I. "Where are they now?"
"On twenty-two," says Tony.
"I'll ride up with you," says I.