“So sorry to be late,” said she, as Oliver ceremoniously handed her out of the car. “Good evening, Mrs. Grimes. Is the soup cold?” “It was all Sammy’s fault,” cried Sammy’s wife. “He poked along at only forty miles an hour.” “Bless my soul,” said Mr. Sage, drawing his first full, free breath; “we were exactly three minutes coming from my house to—” “Had to slow down a bit on Clay Street,” explained Sammy. “Evening, Mrs. Grimes. Step lively, Muriel! You’re holding up the procession.” He gave two short, imperative honks. “That means full speed ahead.” “What is this I hear, Oliver?” said the minister as he stepped out of the car. Jane and Mrs. Sammy had preceded him. “Is it true the detectives are here and expect to start this ridiculous search to-morrow?” “They’re here all right,” replied Oliver. “One of them tried to sell you a set of Dickens the other day.” “What!” cried Jane, gripping Oliver’s arm. “Was that man a detective?” She was startled. “No less a person than Mr. Sherlock Hawkshaw Malone, the renowned sleuth,” said Oliver, smiling. “The—the beast!” she cried hotly. “Good heavens! That accounts for the interest he took in your father’s disappearance. Oh, dear me, I—I wonder what I said to him! He was so pleasant and so interested.” “You’re not the only one he fooled, Jane. He got Sammy for a set of books and Aunt Serepta and Mr. Lansing—and I daresay he talked about the case with every one of them. I haven’t had the nerve to spring it on Aunt Serepta. She’s so happy over the prospect of getting Jane Austen with illustrations, that she’ll die when she hears she’s been tricked.” “At any rate,” said Mr. Sage, complacently, “he did not succeed in selling us a set of Dickens.” Jane started to say something, but, instead, abruptly turned away and joined the other women on the porch. A queer little chill as of misgiving stole over her. “Hey, Oliver!” called out Sammy from down the drive where he was parking the car. “Come here a minute, will you? Say,” he went on, lowering his voice as Oliver came up, “I’ve just picked up something rich. Fellow came in day before yesterday and showed me a volume of the Arabian Nights, absolutely unexpurgated, with some of the gosh-darnedest illustrations you ever—” “I know. And you fell for it, didn’t you?” “Sh! Not so loud. My wife doesn’t know a thing about it. I’ll have to keep ’em at the office. In the safe. But say, who told you about it?” “It’s all over town,” said Oliver mendaciously. “Gee whiz!” gulped Sammy. “Impossible! It’s a dead secret. He said he could be arrested for selling ’em—” “Aha!” broke in Oliver. “That explains everything. The man who told me is a detective.” “Oh, for the Lord’s sake!” whispered Sammy in great agitation. Then in a tone of relief: “Oh, but I’m all right. All I’ve got to do is to cancel the order. I wasn’t to pay anything until—What’s the joke?” Then Oliver told him. Sammy leaned against the mudguard and swore softly.