“That’s easy,” says I.  “This Inter-Lake Navigation that she’s beefin’ about was one of them little concerns we gathered in last fall.  Paid something like fourteen, and our common at three and a half don’t seem so good to her, I expect.  Still, she got a double on her holdings by the deal, and with the melon we’re goin’ to cut next month—­”

“Suppose, Torchy,” breaks in Mr. Robert, tossing back the letter, “you answer the lady in your own direct and lucid way.  You might suggest that we are neither highwaymen nor the Associated Charities, using any little whim of sarcasm that occurs to you.”

I’d just thought out a real snappy come-back too, and was dictatin’ it to a stenographer, when Old Hickory happens to drift by with his ear out.  He stops short.

“Hold on,” says he.  “What Mrs. Bagstock is that?”

“Why, the peevish one, I expect, sir,” says I.

“Let’s see that letter,” says he.

I passes it over.

“Huh!” he goes on, rubbin’ his chin reminiscent.  “I wonder if that could be—­er—­young man, I think I’ll answer this myself.”

“Oh, very well, sir,” says I, shruggin’ my shoulders careless.

Must have been half an hour later when Old Hickory calls me into the private office, and I finds him still gazin’ at the scented note.

“Torchy,” says he, glancin’ keen at me from Tinder his bushy eyebrows, “this Mrs. Bagstock seems to think we are using her badly.  As a matter of fact, those Inter-Lake shareholders were lucky.  We might have frozen them out altogether.  You understand, eh?”

I nods.

“But I can’t put that in a letter,” he goes on.  “It could be explained in a personal interview, however.”

“I get you,” says I.  “I’ll ’phone for her to come around.”

“No!” he roars.  “You’ll do nothing of the sort.  What the rhythmic rhomboids put that into your head?  I don’t want to see the woman.  I’ll not see her, not on any pretext.  Understand?”

“I think so,” says I.

“Then get your hat,” says he.

“Yes, sir,” says I, edging out.

“Just a moment,” says Old Hickory.  “You are to explain to Mrs. Bagstock fully:  assure her that in the long run she will not be the loser, and so on.  As courteously as you know how.  And—­er—­if in the course of the interview you should happen to learn her given name—­er—­just remember it.”

“Such as Ella May or Josephine?”

“No!” he snaps.  “Natalie.  Now clear out.”

Ain’t he the foxy old pirate, though?  Sendin’ me off on a sleuthin’ expedition without givin’ up a hint as to what it’s all about!  Was it some back-number romance that this lilac-dipped note had reminded him of?  More likely there’d been some Bagstock or other who’d double-crossed him in a deal and he’d never found a chance to get square.  Anyway, he’s after a confidential report, so off I pikes.