"By rubberin' at Mr. Robert's date pad," says I.
"Good!" says Old Hickory. "No one else thought of that," and he leads the way in and unlocks Mr. Robert's rolltop. "Now what do those scratches mean?"
"I. W. 2:15," says I, readin' it off. "The arrow points to Inez. He must be with her now."
"Wherever that is!" growls Mr. Ellins. "Go on."
"Say, lemme think a minute," says I, slippin' into the swing chair and doin' the Sherlock gaze at the desk.
"Oh, certainly!" says he, snappy and sarcastic. "Take a nap over it! Plenty of time!" and with that he pads back into his office and slams the door.
Now I didn't like pawin' through the pigeon-holes or drawers; but when I happens to glance at the waste basket I feels more at home. In a jiffy I has it dumped on the rug. There was an empty cigarette box, the usual collection of circulars, a dozen torn business letters, and so on. It looked like a hopeless hunt, too, until I runs across this invitation card announcin' that the Misses Pulsifer will be at home from two-fifteen until five-thirty. There's a Fort Washington Road address, and down in one corner it says "music." Also to-day's the day.
"Whoop!" says I, stowin' away the card. "Me for the Misses Pulsifers' on a long shot. Hey, Mr. Ellins!" I shouts, stickin' my head in the door. "Can I draw two bones for expense money? I'm on the trail."
"The blazes you are!" says he.
"Yep," says I. "Mebbe it's a false scent; but if I find him what's the message?"