“Yes,” chimed in Eunice, “what are you doing, Mr. Hanlon? You told me you were going to take up a different line of work.” “I did, Mrs. Embury; I’m a prosaic and uninteresting painter man nowadays.” “An artist?” “In a way,” and Hanlon smiled; “I paint signs--and I try to do them artistically.” “Signs! How dull for you--after your exciting performances!” “Not so very dull,” interrupted Aunt Abby. “I know about the signs Mr. Hanlon paints! They’re bigger’n a house! They’re--why, they’re scenery--don’t you know?--like you see along the railroad--I mean along the meadows when you’re riding in the cars.” “Oh, scenic advertising,” observed Fleming Stone. “And signs on the Palisades--” “Not on the natural scenery,” laughed Hanlon. “Though I’ve been tempted by high rocks or smooth-sided crags.” “Are you a steeple-jack?” asked Fibsy, his eyes sparkling; “can you paint spires and things?” “No;” and Hanlon looked at the boy, regretfully. “I can’t do that. I’m no climber. I make the signs and then they’re put where they belong by other workmen.” “Oh,” and Fibsy looked disappointed at not finding the daring hero he sought for. “I must not presume further on your kindness, Mrs. Embury,” Hanlon said, with an attempt at society jargon, “I merely called in for a minute. Mr. Hendricks, are you going my way? I want to see you about that sign-” “No, Hanlon--sorry, but I’m not going now,” and Hendricks shook his head. “I’m here for the evening.” “All right see you later, then. Where can I find you? I’m something of an owl, myself.” “I’ll call you up after I get home--if it isn’t too late,” Hendricks suggested. “Never too late for me. See that you remember.” Hanlon looked at Hendricks with more seriousness than the subject appeared to call for, then he went away. “You got the earache?” asked Fibsy suddenly, of Hendricks, as that gentleman half absently rubbed his ear. “Bless my soul, no! What do you mean by such a question? Mr. Stone, this boy of yours is too fresh!” “Be quiet, Terence,” said Stone, paying but slight attention to the matter. “Oh, all right, no offense meant,” and the boy grinned at Hendricks. “But didn’t you ever have an earache? If not, you don’t know what real sufferin’ is!” “No, I never had it, that I remember. Perhaps as a child--” “Why, Alvord,” said Aunt Abby, “you had it fearfully about a month ago. Don’t you recollect? You were afraid of mastoiditis.” “Oh, that. Well, that was a serious illness. I was thinking of an ordinary earache, when I said I never had one. But I beg of you drop the subject of my ailments! What a thing to discuss!” “True enough,” agreed Stone, “I propose we keep to the theme under consideration. I’ve been engaged to look into this murder mystery. I’m here for that purpose. I must insist that I conduct my investigation in my own way.” “That’s the right talk,” approved Elliott. “Now, Mr. Stone, let’s get right down to it.”