“Oh, naw. This I want’s a detecatif story.” He jerked a thumb back toward the limousine. “She seen it in the paper. Firs’ addition.” Merlin’s interest quickened. Here was possibly a big sale. “Oh, editions. Yes, we’ve advertised some firsts, but--detective stories, I--don’t--believe--What was the title?” “I forget. About a crime.” “About a crime. I have--well, I have ‘The Crimes of the Borgias’--full morocco, London 1769, beautifully--” “Naw,” interrupted the chauffeur, “this was one fella did this crime. She seen you had it for sale in the paper.” He rejected several possible titles with the air of connoisseur. “‘Silver Bones,’” he announced suddenly out of a slight pause. “What?” demanded Merlin, suspecting that the stiffness of his sinews were being commented on. “Silver Bones. That was the guy that done the crime.” “Silver Bones?” “Silver Bones. Indian, maybe.” Merlin, stroked his grizzly cheeks. “Gees, Mister,” went on the prospective purchaser, “if you wanna save me an awful bawln’ out jes’ try an’ think. The old lady goes wile if everything don’t run smooth.” But Merlin’s musings on the subject of Silver Bones were as futile as his obliging search through the shelves, and five minutes later a very dejected charioteer wound his way back to his mistress. Through the glass Merlin could see the visible symbols of a tremendous uproar going on in the interior of the limousine. The chauffeur made wild, appealing gestures of his innocence, evidently to no avail, for when he turned around and climbed back into the driver’s seat his expression was not a little dejected. Then the door of the limousine opened and gave forth a pale and slender young man of about twenty, dressed in the attenuation of fashion and carrying a wisp of a cane. He entered the shop, walked past Merlin, and proceeded to take out a cigarette and light it. Merlin approached him. “Anything I can do for you, sir?” “Old boy,” said the youth coolly, “there are seveereal things. You can first let me smoke my ciggy in here out of sight of that old lady in the limousine, who happens to be my grandmother. Her knowledge as to whether I smoke it or not before my majority happens to be a matter of five thousand dollars to me. The second thing is that you should look up your first edition of the ‘Crime of Sylvester Bonnard’ that you advertised in last Sunday’s _Times_. My grandmother there happens to want to take it off your hands.” Detecatif story! Crime of somebody! Silver Bones! All was explained. With a faint deprecatory chuckle, as if to say that he would have enjoyed this had life put him in the habit of enjoying anything, Merlin doddered away to the back of his shop where his treasures were kept, to get this latest investment which he had picked up rather cheaply at the sale of a big collection. When he returned with it the young man was drawing on his cigarette and blowing out quantities of smoke with immense satisfaction.