He's some younger than the other, in the late twenties, I should judge,
and has sort of a stern, haughty stare.

"Why of course?" he demands.

"Eh?" says I. "Why--er--well, you've got my note, ain't you, there in
your hand?"

"Ah!" says he. "Rather a clever deduction; eh, Tidman?"

"I shouldn't say so," croaks the other. "Quite obvious, in fact. If
it wasn't me it must be you."

"Oh, but you're such a deucedly keen chap," protests Waldo. Then he
swings back to me. "From my attorneys?"

"Just came from there," says I.

"Odd," says he. "I don't remember having seen you before."

"That's right," says I. "You see, Mr. Pettigrew, I'm really
representin' the Corrugated Trust and--"

"Don't know it at all," breaks in Waldo.

"That's why I'm here," says I. "Now, here's our proposition."

And say, before he can get his breath or duck under the table, I've
spread out the blue-prints and am shootin' the prospectus stuff into
him at the rate of two hundred words to the minute.