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 already talked too much to a very clever reporter! Cloaking her real purpose under the request for an interview for the sporting page, our friend Joan Stillwell scored a notable victory for the senator's enemies. According to her rather peculiar lights, I suppose she did a good job!" He pats my shoulder. "Cheer up," he adds; "it can't be helped now. For your sake as well as the senator's, I'm sorry she bilked us—you were rather hard hit, weren't you?"

"I fell—sure!" I admits. "But that's all over now. I guess that stuff about her kid brother bein' a scrapper was the bunk too—hey?"

"Probably," says the Kid with a hard, short laugh. "Though that was a touch that approached art! We'll never see her again, at any rate. I'll wager she's laughing herself sick right now at the way she took us in!"

But we did see her again, and she wasn't laughin' either.

We was gettin' ready to go down and put on the feed bag, when once again the phone makes good and again the Kid answers it. This time he says: "Come right up!" in a funny voice, hangs up, and turns to me with a smile. "Stand a slight shock?" he says.

"Now what the—eh—what's the matter?" I hollers, jumpin' up. "Who was that?"

"Miss Joan Stillwell," answers the Kid.

Then there's a knock at the door, and I flung it wide open with a snarl. Joan was there all right and, sore as I was—I was more hurt than mad, anyways—I noticed she was as bewilderin' as ever! She's been