"I--I can't explain just how I happen to be here," says the gent,
"but--but there are those who can."

"Eh?" says I. "Oh-ho!"

It was only a quick glance he shot over, but I caught who it was aimed
at. Also, I noticed the effect. And just like that I had a swift
hunch how all this ground-floor mix-up might be worked in useful.

"Mr. Pettigrew," says I, "suppose I could Sherlock Holmes this laundry
mystery without callin' in the cops?"

"Oh, I should be so grateful!" says T. Waldo.

"That ain't the answer," says I. "Would it make you feel different
about sellin' that land?"

"Oh, I say, you know!" protests T. Waldo, startin' to stiffen up.

For a two-by-four he lugs around a lot of cranky whims, and it looked
like this was one of his pets. There's quite a mulish streak in him,
too.

"All right," says I, startin' towards the basement stairs. "Settle it
your own way."

"But, really, I--I don't know what to do," says Waldo. "I--I'm all
upset. Of course, if you insist on the land--"

"That's talkin'!" says I. "My guess is that it won't take long.