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 trying to seem interested in Fudge's conversation and at the same time follow the story being thrown on the screen.

"Finger-prints," confided Fudge, "and a piece of torn paper with three words on it."

"Fine! What were the words?"

"I don't know yet. I haven't got to that. Young Sleuth found the paper and didn't let on he had it. Detective stories are awfully hard to write. But it would make a dandy 'movie'!"

By that time the patience of those sitting in the neighborhood was exhausted and Fudge was requested to stop talking. He subsided with a grin, but a close observer would have seen that he was not paying much heed to the polite adventures of the beautiful heroine of the photo-play. Instead of looking toward the stage he fixed his gaze on the bald head of the man in front of him and surreptitiously munched chestnuts. When, finally, the play ended with a moonlight scene in which virtue was brilliantly triumphant, Fudge grunted his disapproval and once more turned to Dick.

"I've got it!" he whispered hoarsely.

"Got what?" asked Dick.

"The solution! Old Middleton was attacked out