Flandrau looked up with a suggestion of eagerness in his eyes.
“What do you reckon it means?” he asked.
“Search me. Like as not it don’t mean a thing. The others had just as much sense as that one.”
“Let’s see the others.”
“I chucked them into the waste paper basket. One came by the morning mail yesterday and one by the afternoon. I’m no mind reader, and I’ve got no time to guess fool puzzles.”
Curly observed that the waste paper basket was full. Evidently it had not been emptied for two or three days.
“Mind if I look for the others?” he asked.
Bolt waved permission. “Go to it.”
The young man emptied the basket on the floor and went over its contents carefully. He found three communications from the unknown writer. Each of them was printed by hand on a sheet of cheap lined paper torn from a scratch pad. He smoothed them out and put them side by side on the table. This was what he read:
HEARTS ARE TRUMPS