date, and we meets on the corner at twelve-thirty. He's more or less excited.

"Then you think you know who she is?" he asks.

"If you're a good describer," says I, "there's a chance that I do. But listen: suppose she's kind of out of your class—a girl who's been brought up in a basement, say, with a janitor for a father?"

"What do I care who her father is?" says Crosby. "I was brought up in a lumber camp myself. All I ask is a chance to meet her."

"You sure know what you want," says I. "Come on."

"See!" he whispers as we get to the Maison Noir's show window. "She's there!"

And sure enough, standin' back to, over in the corner facin' the mirror, is this classy figure in the zippy street dress, with Mame Stribble's hair and eyes. She's doin' the dummy act well,85 too. I couldn't see either breath or eye flutter.

85

"Huh!" says I. "It's by me. Let's go in and interview Madame Maurice."

We had to waste four or five minutes while I inspects the dress Vee has bought, and I sure felt foolish standin' there watchin' this young lady model glide back and forth.

"I trust Monsieur approves?" asks Madame Maurice.

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Quite spiffy. But say, I noticed one in the window that sort of took my eye—that street dress, in the corner."

"Street dress?" says the Madame, lookin' puzzled. "Is M'sieur certain?"

"Maybe I'd better point it out."

But by the time I'd towed her to the front door there was nothing of the kind in sight.

"As I thought," says Madame. "A slight mistake."

"Looks so, don't it?" says I, as we trails back in. "But you have a Miss Mamie Stribble working here, haven't you; a young lady with kind of goldy hair, dark eyebrows and a sort of old ivory complexion?"

"Ah!" says the Madame. "Perhaps you mean Marie St. Ribble?"

"That's near enough," says I. "Could I have a few words with her?"

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