"I have none," I said sadly, "that is just my trouble. I have sat here for days trying to think of a good practical scheme, but I can't. I don't believe there is an unworked scheme in the whole wide, wide world." Perkins waved his hand. "My boy," he exclaimed, "there are millions! You've thousands of 'em right here in your office! You're falling over them, sitting on them, walking on them! Schemes? Everything is a scheme. Everything has money in it!" I shrugged my shoulders. "Yes," I said, "for you. But you are a genius." "Genius, yes," Perkins said smiling cheerfully, "else why Perkins the Great? Why Perkins the originator? Why the Great and Only Perkins of Portland?" "All right," I said, "what I want is for your genius to get busy. I'll give you a week to work up a good scheme." Perkins pushed back his hat and brought his feet to the floor with a smack. "Why the delay?" he queried, "time is money. Hand me something from your desk." I looked in my pigeonholes and pulled from one a small ball of string. Perkins took it in his hand and looked at it with great admiration. "What is it?" he asked seriously. "That," I said humoring him, for I knew something great would be evolved from his wonderful brain, "is a ball of red twine I bought at the ten-cent store. I bought it last Saturday. It was sold to me by a freckled young lady in a white shirtwaist. I paid--" "Stop!" Perkins cried, "what is it?" I looked at the ball of twine curiously. I tried to see something remarkable in it. I couldn't. It remained a simple ball of red twine and I told Perkins so. "The difference," declared Perkins, "between mediocrity and genius! Mediocrity always sees red twine; genius sees a ball of Crimson Cord!" He leaned back in his chair and looked at me triumphantly. He folded his arms as if he had settled the matter. His attitude seemed to say that he had made a fortune for us. Suddenly he reached forward, and grasping my scissors, began snipping off small lengths of the twine. "The Crimson Cord!" he ejaculated. "What does it suggest?" I told him that it suggested a parcel from the druggist's. I had often seen just such twine about a druggist's parcel. Perkins sniffed disdainfully. "Druggists?" he exclaimed with disgust. "Mystery! Blood! 'The Crimson Cord.' Daggers! Murder! Strangling! Clues! 'The Crimson Cord'--" He motioned wildly with his hands as if the possibilities of the phrase were quite beyond his power of expression. "It sounds like a book," I suggested. "Great!" cried Perkins. "A novel! The novel! Think of the words 'A Crimson Cord' in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!" He pulled his hat over his eyes and spread out his hands, and I think he shuddered. "Think of 'A Crimson Cord,'" he muttered, "in blood-red letters on a ground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing through them like a serpent." He sat up suddenly and threw one hand in the air.