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250 borrow.—Whipple is the head of his corporation now, isn't he? Pretty good for a chap at twenty-nine."

"Oh, well, you know how a fellow can climb in one of those mushroom Western towns." Dilke leaned forward in his chair. "He is here now; I'll call him up, and we three will go and have a little dinner to-night somewhere."

"Sorry, but I can't make it," Odell interrupted again. The fact is, I'm on a case just now."

I might have known it," Dilke exclaimed ruefully. You've come to me for some dope, I suppose. What is it? Has some Wall-Street magnate murdered his mother-in-law?"

"Not quite that." Odell smiled. "I would like to know though, Jim, what a certain broker has been doing on the Exchange lately."

"Who? We've got 'em all stuffed, mounted, and catalogued," announced his friend. "The little old Gazette doesn't miss many tricks."

"The man"—Odell eyed the glowing tip of his cigar studiously—"is Richard Lorne."

"Lorne? Great Scott, you don't mean to say you're on that case?" Dilke's chair creaked perilously. "What does it mean; wholesale murder or a practical joke?"

"What do you know about it?" Odell demanded in his turn.

"Only what everybody knows who has two cents for a paper and can read," the other retorted. "Didn't you know yourself that it was all out in the early edition of the evening papers? Here, have a look."

He swept an armful of newspapers across the desk, and