of pints on you which accounts for the missing ten. Don't be so cryptical in indicating your skate hereafter. You had me guessing for a few minutes. Regards.
"If McTurf calls this a joke," said Terry, "Oi'm a willin' victim."
"Sentiment echoed," I returned. For fully an hour Terry and I mooted this strange matter. Like a will-o'-the-wisp, solution seemed as far away at the conclusion as when we began. One thing we knew: the money belonged to us, however its acquisition was brought about. McTurf's note had not been written to veil an act of benevolence. He was no paragon of charity we knew.
"How about the tiligraph company?" suggested the resourceful Terry.
We called at the office from which we had telegraphed McTurf.
"Will you please have ours of yesterday to McTurf, New York, repeated?" I asked the clerk.
A little later the clerk submitted for our inspection the following:
See hat after two. Make best bargain.
A DATE WITH FATE, by Gertrude Sanborn is another December feature. It is a cheery little story of a woman who went into the park in search of romance because she was tired of crocheting picots across guest towels and was bored by a husband who was a perfect forty-eight (around the waist) and had a perennial pain in his shoulder.
