chance.  No, it has all been nicely calculated, carried out with relentless precision.  Four Wednesdays, four floral threats!"

"Threats?" says Mr. Ellins, sittin' up prompt.

"You failed to read them," says the Doc.  "That is what comes of neglecting minor details.  But fortunately I came in time to decipher this one.  Observe the fateful number,--thirteen.  Note the colors here,--brown, golden, pink.  The pink of the mallow means youth, the goldenrod stands for hoarded wealth, the brown for age.  And all are bound together by wire grass, which is the tightening snare.  A menacing missive!  There will come another on Wednesday next."

"Think so?" says Old Hickory.

"I am positive," says the Doc.  "One more.  We will allude to it for the present, if you choose, as the fifth bouquet.  And this fifth token will be red, blood red!  Mr. Ellins, you are a marked man!"

"The blazes you say!" snorts Old Hickory.  "Well, it won't be the first time.  Who's after me now, though?"

"Five desperate men," says the Doc, countin' 'em off on his fingers.  "Four have given evidence of their subtle daring.  The fifth is yet to appear.  He will come on Wednesday next, and then--he will find that his coming has been anticipated.  I shall be here in person.  Now, let me see--there is a room connecting with this?  Ah, very well.  Have three policemen in readiness there.  I think it can be arranged so that our man will walk in among them of his own accord.  That is all.  Give yourself no uneasiness, Mr. Ellins.  For a week you will be undisturbed.  Until then, Sir, au revoir."

With that he bows dignified and motions Piddie to lead the way out.  I slides out too, leavin' Old Hickory sittin' there starin' sort of puzzled and worried at the wall.  And, honest, whether you took any stock in the Doc's yellow forecast or not, it listens kind of creepy.  Course, with him usin' all that highbrow language, I couldn't exactly follow how he gets to it; but there's no denyin' that it sounds mighty convincin'.

And yet--well, I can't say just what there was about Bingstetter that got me leery; but somehow he reminds me of a street faker or a museum lecturer.  And it does seem sort of fishy that, just by gazin' at a bunch of flowers, he could dope out all this wild tale about five desp'rate men.  Still, there was no gettin' away from the fact that he had hit it right about the bouquets appearin' reg'lar every 

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