"I—I can't explain just how I happen to be here," says the gent, "but—but there are those who can."
"Eh?" says I. "Oh-ho!"
It was only a quick glance he shot over, but I caught who it was aimed at. Also, I noticed the effect. And just like that I had a swift hunch how all this ground-floor mix-up might be worked in useful.
"Mr. Pettigrew," says I, "suppose I could Sherlock Holmes this laundry mystery without callin' in the cops?"
"Oh, I should be so grateful!" says T. Waldo.
"That ain't the answer," says I. "Would it make you feel different about sellin' that land?"
"Oh, I say, you know!" protests T. Waldo, startin' to stiffen up.
For a two-by-four he lugs around a lot of cranky whims, and it looked like this was one of his pets. There's quite a mulish streak in him, too.
"All right," says I, startin' towards the basement stairs. "Settle it your own way."
"But, really, I—I don't know what to do," says Waldo. "I—I'm all upset. Of course, if you insist on the land—"