The letter was from Eloise Wright, Chairman of the Northport Art Festival, and concerned his canvases. _Ellis is positively dithy-rambic! Claims you've caught a hauntingly spiritual quality, and wants to buy the storm canvas for his San Francisco galleries. Barret, the Chicago Barret, is lyrical about the spectral lights and shadows, and is writing his New York dealer about a showing. Have sold four canvases. Enclose certified check--_ Jerry reached for a chair. Four canvases? His asking price for four canvases had never come to any such figure as the check represented. The letter contained a postscript. _Barret is out of his head over "Gertrude." Impressionism at its finest, with an eerie, imaginative quality unsurpassed by any American artist. Soul of the eternally feminine, as typified by a cat with a hole in the head. Social satire in oil. Picture not priced. He asks what will you take within reason? One thousand?_ Jerry was sure of only one thing. He'd never painted any picture of Gertrude. There was, however, the matter of that tube of bice green squeezed in the middle, and the gamboge left capless. He ran to the stairwell and yelled for Captain Wully, who presently appeared. "I have here a letter--" "I didn't do it," Captain Wully protested. "'Twas Junior touched up the paintings. And 'twas Junior painted Gertrude. Me? All I did was help Junior dry the paint and boost your prices a wee muckle." "How much?" "By nothing at all, you might say. A zero on the end?" Jerry looked at the check. "I feel like I've been obtaining money under false pretenses. Junior doesn't even get any credit." "But he does. Every one of those paintings was signed 'J. Masterson-Junior.'" "I feel more honest about banking the check," said Jerry. When he made out his deposit slip and totaled his bank balance, Jerry reflected how quickly an inferiority complex can melt in financial sunshine. He made a brief stop at the post office, where he mailed a check to the county assessor. He then headed straight for Heather Higgins' front door. She had company. "Glad to know you." Jerry acknowledged introduction to Wesley Tatom and stared with helpless fascination at the latter's necktie--of MacGreggor plaid. "You arrived just in time to give me a little moral support," said Heather breathlessly. "Now, Heather, we mustn't bore Masterson with our personal difficulties." "I've started a story about Oscar the werewolf, but Wesley thinks--" Wesley interrupted. "I'm looking at it from a business standpoint. Some day I'll step into my father's shoes at the bank. And what would the Board of Directors think of a bank president's wife who wrote claptrap about werewolves and spare-rib glockenspiels?" "I doubt if they'd think anything at all--particularly if it paid well," said Jerry, and stared at Wesley Tatom's tie. The knot had begun to ease gently.