I’d heard Piddie spout a good many times before, but never quite so eloquent, and I expect I was gawpin’ at him some dazed and admirin’.

“Well,” says Old Hickory, squintin’ sharp at me from under his bushy eyebrows, “what have you to offer?”

“It’s by me,” says I, shruggin’ my shoulders.

“Oh, come now!” he goes on.  “With that high tension brain of yours, surely you can advance some idea.”

“Why,” says I, “offhand I should say that some of them mushy lady typists out there might be smugglin’ in floral tributes to you, Sir.”

Old Hickory grins sarcastic.  “Without going into the question of motive,” says he, “that suggestion may be worth considering.  What say, Mr. Piddie?”

“It might be that Miss Smicks,” says Piddie.  “She’s quite sentimental, Sir, and I’ve thought at times she——­”

“Stop!” roars Old Hickory, almost workin’ up a blush.  “Mr. Piddie, I am a fat, cross-grained old man, about as attractive personally as a hippopotamus.  Great stuttering tadpoles!  Can’t you think of anything but sappy romance?  More likely someone wants a raise.”

“Very true, Sir; I hadn’t thought of that,” chimes in Piddie.  “Shall we call them all in, one at a time, Sir, and——­”

“And what?” snaps Old Hickory.  “Think I’m going to ask all those young women if they’ve been leaving flowers on my desk?”

“Couldn’t you fake up some job for each one,” says I, “and when they came in be wearin’ the flowers conspicuous, and watch if they——­”

“Bah!” breaks in Old Hickory.  “What driveling tommyrot!  Besides, I don’t believe any of them had a hand in this.  How could they?  Why, I tell you, there wasn’t a soul in this room between noon and twelve forty-five to-day; and yet, with me facing that door, these things appear right at my elbow.  It—­it’s getting on my nerves, and, by the seven sizzling sisters, I want to know what it all means!”

“We could have in the detectives,” suggests Piddie.

“If it was a bomb or an infernal machine, I might,” says Mr. Ellins scornful; “but to trace a few dad-blistered flowers—­no, thank you!  It’s foolish enough as it stands.”

“But there is something behind all this, I’m sure,” insists Piddie, “and if you will allow me to do it, I shall send at once for Dr. Rudolph Bingstetter.”

“Who’s he?” demands Old Hickory.

“A distinguished scientist who is a friend and neighbor of mine,” says Piddie, swellin’ up important.  “He was formerly a dentist, I believe; but now he devotes himself to research and literature.  He writes magazine articles on psychological phenomena, crime mysteries, and so on.  Dr. Bingstetter has a wonderful mind, and is often called on to unravel baffling cases.  It was only a few months ago that he successfully investigated a haunted house out our way and found——­”

“But I’m not accusing ghosts of this,” says Old Hickory.