should want to have a message as often as possible. If I send him my texts every night, he ought to reply in the morning paper. This paper seems to show four messages. The last one must be yesterday's. That would bring his first advertisement just four days ago—Monday, May twenty-fifth."
He turned to the file, and they looked over the pages together, her chin on his shoulder, Astro's long forefinger hovering at one advertisement after another, his suave voice keeping up a running commentary:
"We'll omit the displayed ads. He's probably poor, or Ruth's stepmother wouldn't object to him; so couldn't afford that, and besides they would be too conspicuous. All the little ones are classified under heads. Let's see: 'Automobiles,'—h'm, all well-known second-hand shops. 'Lawyers,'—nothing there. 'Real Estate, Villa Lots,'—don't see anything, do you? 'Furnished Rooms.' 'Unfurnished Flats,'—let's go carefully here. What we want is three figures. We'll recognize them by the wording, if they're put in on purpose. I don't see anything there. H'm, 'For Sale,'—go slow now! 'Fixtures.' 'Bargains.' 'Typewriters.' 'Sacrifice,'—well! what do you think of that? Eureka!"
His finger stopped at a three-line notice, which read:
FOR SALE
19 vols. of Sir Roger de Coverley, 63 illustrations on wood; $6 and $8 each. G. P. James & Co., Flatiron Bldg.
"Now, isn't that crazy enough to be suspicious? 'Nineteen' again, too, her favorite number. Who ever heard of Sir Roger de Coverley, except in the papers
