He's no exaggerator, Vincent. This female party that I finds bulgin' Old Hickory's swing desk chair has got any Jonah fish I ever saw pictured out lookin' like a pickerel. I don't mean she's any side-show freak. Not as bad as that. But for her height, which is about medium, I should say, she sure is bulky. The way she sits there with her skirts spreadin' wide around her feet, she has all the graceful outlines of a human water tower. Above the wide shoulders is a big, high-colored face, and wabblin' kind of unsteady on top of her head is a black velvet hat with jet decorations. You remember them pictures we used to see of the late Queen Victoria? Well, the Senora is an enlarged edition. I was wonderin' how long since she came up from Cuba, and if I'd need a Spanish interpreter to find out why she thinks she has to call on the president of the Corrugated Trust, when she rolls them big dark eyes of hers my way and remarks, in perfectly good United States: "Ah! A ray of sunshine!" It comes out so unexpected that for a second or so I just gawps at her, and then I asks: "Referrin' to my hair?" "Forgive me, young man," says she. "But it is such a cheerful shade." "Yes'm," says I. "So I've been told. Some call it fire-hydrant red, but I claim it's only super-pink." "Anyway, I like it very much," says she. "I hope they don't call you Reddy, though?" "No, ma'am," says I. "Torchy." "Why, how clever!" says she. "May I call you that, too? And I suppose you are one of Mr. Ellins' assistants?" "His private secretary," says I. "So you can see what luck he's playin' in. Did you want to talk to him 'special, or is it anything I can fix up for you?" "It's rather personal, I'm afraid," says she. "The boy at the door insisted that Mr. Ellins wasn't in, but I told him I didn't mind waiting." "That's nice," says I. "He'll be back in a week or so." "Oh!" says she. "Then he went away before my note came?" Which was where I begun to work up a hunch. Course, it's only a wild suspicion at first. She don't fit the description at all. Still, if she should be the one--I could feel the panicky shivers chasin' up and down my backbone just at the thought. I expect my voice wavered a little as I put the question. "Say," says I, "you don't happen to be Bonnie Sutton, do you?" That got a laugh out of her. It's no throaty, old-hen cackle, either. It's clear and trilly. "Thank you, Torchy," says she. "You've guessed it. But please tell me how?" "Why," says I, draggy, "I--er--you see----" And then I'm struck with this foolish idea. Honest, I couldn't help pullin' it. "Mr. Ellins," I goes on, "happened to show me your picture." "What!" says she. "My picture? I--I can hardly believe it." "Wait," says I. "It's right here in the drawer. That is, it was. Yep! This one. There!"