“Schepstein,” said the Little Red Doctor. “He's a thief too. But he knows.” Schepstein received us in his grubby, grimy, desolated front room, which did duty as an office, with a malevolent cross-fire from his distorted eyes. “Bit of business?” he repeated after Mr. Boggs. “What business? State your business.” “For sale,” piped Mr. Boggs, handing him the letter which he had taken from the envelope. Hardly a glance did Schepstein give it. “Thomas Jonathan Jackson? Who'she? And who's this Major Pemberton?” Mr. Boggs explained, in indignant piccolo tones, who Thomas Jonathan Jackson was. Not about Major Pemberton, however. No authority had been given to our deputation to disclose the ownership of the letter; So far as we were aware at that time, it would have meant nothing to Schepstein anyway. We had no reason, then, to suppose that he even knew Madam Tallafferr. “Humph!” grunted Schepstein. “Stonewall Jackson, eh? Might be worth something. Lessee the envelope.” He looked it over carefully, front and back, folded the letter which he had not even read, and slipped it back in. “Leave it with me overnight,” he suggested negligently. “I'll think it over and make you a price in the morning.” “Think as much as you like,” returned Mr. Boggs, retrieving the treasure. “We'll keep this. And we'll be back at eleven to-morrow.” Observe, now, the advantages of living in a small self-centered community like Our Square, where everybody has an intimate (if not invariably friendly) interest in everybody else's affairs. Inky Mike had noted with curiosity our visit to Schepstein. As a press tender, the inky one naturally aspires to be a reporter, but his ideal reporter, being derived mainly from journalism as set forth in the movies, is a species of glorified compromise between Sherlock Holmes and Horace Greeley in a rich variety of disguises. He had no disguise handy, but he washed his face and followed Schepstein when that astute bargainer set forth immediately after our visit. Further, he listened outside the booth while the object of his sleuthing phoned a telegram. As he reported it in great excitement to our trio, it was addressed to a gentleman named Olds, in Cincinnati and read to this esoteric effect:-- “Alexandra local five forty-six perfect. What price? Answer quick.” “Who's Olds?” asked the Little Red Doctor. “Olds? Doncher know Olds?” cried Inky Mike. “The oil king? The multamillionaire?” “What has this to do with us?” I asked. “It seems to be some oil quotation. What does Alexandra local' mean?” “Search me!” offered the amateur sleuth. “But don'choo fool yourself! It's your business, awright. He snook out after you went, shakin' all over.” Mr. Boggs, who from the first had been profoundly impressed by his Duchess's tradition-inspired estimate of the autograph, nodded a sagacious head. “Trust old Schep!” he fluted. “When I've his money in hand; not before,” grunted the Little Red Doctor.