"That," I said humoring him, for I knew something great would be evolved from his wonderful brain, "is a ball of red twine I bought at the ten-cent store. I bought it last Saturday. It was sold to me by a freckled young lady in a white shirtwaist. I paid—"

   "Stop!" Perkins cried, "what is it?"

   I looked at the ball of twine curiously. I tried to see something remarkable in it. I couldn't. It remained a simple ball of red twine and I told Perkins so.

   "The difference," declared Perkins, "between mediocrity and genius! Mediocrity always sees red twine; genius sees a ball of Crimson Cord!"

   He leaned back in his chair and looked at me triumphantly. He folded his arms as if he had settled the matter. His attitude seemed to say that he had made a fortune for us. Suddenly he reached forward, and

   grasping my scissors, began snipping off small lengths of the twine.

   "The Crimson Cord!" he ejaculated. "What does it suggest?"

   I told him that it suggested a parcel from the druggist's. I had often seen just such twine about a druggist's parcel.

   Perkins sniffed disdainfully.

   "Druggists?" he exclaimed with disgust. "Mystery! Blood! 'The Crimson Cord.' Daggers! Murder! Strangling! Clues! 'The Crimson Cord'—"

   He motioned wildly with his hands as if the possibilities of the phrase were quite beyond his power of expression.

   "It sounds like a book," I suggested.

   "Great!" cried Perkins. "A novel! The novel! Think of the words 'A Crimson Cord' in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!" He pulled his hat over his eyes and spread out his hands, and I think he shuddered.

   "Think of 'A Crimson Cord,'" he muttered, "in blood-red letters on a ground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing through them like a serpent."

   He sat up suddenly and threw one hand in the air.

   "Think," he cried, "of the words in black on white with a crimson cord drawn taut across the whole ad!"

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