To Garry two days later came a telegram from Craig Farm. It covered
three typewritten pages and read like a theatrical manager's costume
instructions to a star.

Garry stared.

"Oh, my Lord!" he groaned. "The sister's pretty!"

After a dazed interval, however, he found comfort in the thought that
the postmark had been harmless. It had served no other purpose than to
lead the penitential lunatic to Craig Farm. He would likely get no
further.

"The ties in Brian's bureau," read Garry, thunderstruck at the wealth
of detail. "My white flannels. Have cleaned. No place here. Had to
ride seven miles with a milk-man to send this--"

Garry ran his eye over the rest and groaned again at the hopeless task
ahead. Very well, he decided, reaching for the telephone, if he must
invade the O'Neill studio, excavate and pack, Sid could help and Mac
and Jan. Waiting, he read the telegram again. With Kenny's usual
sense of values there was one brief sentence relative to some materials
for work. He left the responsibility of selection there to Garry.

"Work, hell!" exclaimed Garry, provoked. "He wants work so he can fill
his time thinking up ways to evade it."