“Now why,” quoth Val, “should this be thus?” He addressed the walls of his comfortable bedroom and paused for reply.
“You don’t know, is that it?” he asked again. “Well, that makes it unanimous. I ask you,” he remarked to himself, “why should the best looking girl in all the world sell a ten thousand dollar bill for the sum of two dollars and thirteen (count ’em) cents?” He paused again for reply. There was none.
“Now we just simply have got to find that girl. We have business with her. Those eyes . . . ”
It was one of the most singular things he had ever known, he reflected. Of course, the girl had no idea the money was in the book—yet why was it there and who had put it there? Evidently she needed money badly. Well, here it was; a large stack of it. And he, Val, had but to search her out and place it in her hand . . . that hand, he had noticed it . . . white and small and . . . that is, place it in her hand, at the same time placing himself on a basis of intimacy with her by the mere fact of his having returned all that money to her.
Although ten thousand dollars was no great sum of money to Valentine Morley, still he could appreciate the fact that, if you needed it, it was a tremen-
