And just for the fun of the thing I collected them twenty-eight pieces of yellow paper, carried 'em over to my lunch place, and spent the best part of my noon-hour piecin' 'em together. What I got was this, scribbled in lead pencil: Grebel out. Larkin melding. Teg morf rednu. "Whiffo!" thinks I. "What kind of a Peruvian dialect is this?" Course the names was plain enough. Everybody knows Grebel and Larkin, and that they're the big wheezes in that Philly crowd. But what then? Had Grebel gone out to lunch? And was Larkin playin' penuchle? Thrillin', if true. Then comes this "Teg morf rednu" stuff. Was that Russian, or Chinese? "Heiney," says I, callin' the dough-faced food juggler. "Heiney," I repeats solemn, "Teg morf rednu." Not a smile from Heiney. He grabs the bill of fare and begins to hunt through the cheese list panicky. "Never mind," says I, "you won't find it there. But here's another: What do you do when you meld a hundred aces, say?" A look of almost human intelligence flickers into Heiney's face. "_Ach!_" says he. "By the table you pud 'em--so!" "Thanks, Heiney," says I. "That helps a little." So Larkin was chuckin' something on the table, was he! But this other dope, "Teg morf rednu?" Say, I'd come back to that after every bite. I wrote it out on an envelope, tried runnin' it together and splittin' it up diff'rent, and turned it upside down. Then in a flash I got it. When Mr. Robert sails in from the club I was waitin' for him. He'd heard a rumor that Grebel was to retire soon. Also he'd met young Larkin in the billiard room, and found that the fam'ly was goin' abroad for the summer. "But all that may mean nothing at all, you know," says Mr. Robert. "And then again," says I. "Study that out and see if it don't tally with your dope," and I produces a copy of Izzy's wireless. Mr. Robert wrinkles his forehead over it without any result. "What is it?" says he. "An inside tip on Tractions," says I, and sketches out how I'd got it. "Oh, I see now," says he. "That about Grebel? But what is melding? And this last--'Teg morf rednu'? I can make no sense of that." "Try it backwards," says I. "Why--er--by Jove!" says he. "Get from under, eh? Then--then there is a slump coming. And with all that new stock issue, I'm not surprised. But that hits Miss Vee's aunt rather heavily, doesn't it? That is, if the deal has gone through." "Who's her lawyers?" says I. "They ought to know." "Of course," says Mr. Robert, reachin' for the 'phone. "Winkler, Burt & Winkler. Look up the number, will you? Eh? Broad, did you say?" And inside of three minutes he has explained the case and got the verdict. "They don't know," says he. "The transfer receipts were sent for her to sign last night. If she's signed them, there's nothing to be done." "But if she hasn't?" says I.