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ment came over an especially pretty representing a bunch of grapes and two face.

'Is n't he bright?' she thought. 'I never heard of anything so original. How Mabel will scream when I tell her about it.'

'You seem awfully interested in umbrellas.'

cupids.

'My God!' muttered Mr. Pinkham, 'it's Whitehouse's umbrella. What'll I do next?'

This agonized query was not easy to answer. Certain it was that Mr. Pinkham did not cut an especially dignified

'Oh, I am!' protested Mr. Pinkham figure as he swayed in the aisle grasping eagerly. a big umbrella and gazing intently at the handle.

'Do you collect umbrellas?' 'Why no, you see I have a friend who has an umbrella

'Indeed!'

'Yes, it's a corker. It's awfully old. My friend inherited it. He died in 1890. I mean my friend's great uncle did. He left it as an only bequest. Fifty years old.'

'Who is fifty years old, your friend's friend's uncle?'

'No, no, the umbrella.'

The girl laughed. Anybody would have laughed. Mr. Pinkham never looked funnier.

'You see,' Mr. Pinkham floundered on, 'my friend was awfully attached to his uncle-I mean his uncle's umbrella almost like a son to him.'

'His uncle was like a son to your friend?'

'No, no, the umbrella was!'

'Your friend must have a very affectionate disposition if he treats his umbrella like a member of the family.' She laughed again. Mr. Pinkham laughed, though rather more nervously than Mr. Pinkham usually laughed.

The young lady arose and extracted her umbrella from the rack. With evident amusement she handed it to this excruciating man. How would he 'land' from such an absurd excuse onto solid ground?

Mr. Pinkham forgot his attractive neighbor. The umbrella was largealtogether too large for a girl. Black silk. It had a richly tinted ivory handle

'I've been awfully interested in umbrellas,' he said, breaking the momentary silence, 'because my friend lost his and I've been trying to help him find it.'

The look of amusement faded from the face of the umbrella's attractive owner. She said coldly, 'So you suspect that that my umbrella is stolen property?' 'No, oh no!'

'I'll trouble you for it. I'm willing to allow that umbrella to be admired if anybody wants to admire an umbrella but that does n't mean identification as stolen property.'

Saying which, the young woman laid the umbrella on the floor by the steam pipe, and turned her chair toward the window.

Mr. Pinkham realized he was up against a large, man-sized crisis. He realized also that his only hope of following the Whitehouse relic further was to change his tactics, and at

once.

'I have a confession to make,' said Mr. Pinkham meekly. 'Please don't refuse to hear it.'

The girl made no reply, but she wheeled her chair around and faced the umbrella sleuth.

'Nothing to it.'

"Your uncle, you mean?'

'Yes, my friend, his uncle, the umbrella, and all the dope. Nothing to it.'

There was a slight twinkle in a most attractive pair of brown eyes, but no

change of expression. 'Is n't he perfectly killing?' was the girl's amused thought. 'Did you ever see such a fool? He's awfully bright. I never would have thought he could get down to earth so cleverly. And funny! Somehow I never saw anything so funny before!'

'You mean there was n't any truth in anything you said?'

'Absolutely no truth whatever. I just had to get acquainted with you. I was desperate. I could n't offer any little assistance, not even a magazine or paper. I could n't see a ghost of a show of rescuing you from bandits or violence certainly not before I get to Portsmouth. Time was short. It's shorter still now. Please forgive me. I really was desperate,' stammered Mr. Pinkham with a timid, ingratiating smile. He permitted the sway of the car to lurch him a little nearer the adjoining vacant seat.

The owner of the umbrella laughed. It was not due altogether to a sudden relenting on her part. This was one of the rare instances in Mr. Pinkham's career in which the involuntary mirth which he inspired was fortunate.

During the agreeable hour which followed, Mr. Pinkham exerted himself feverishly to secure some information concerning his companion, but in vain. With unusual skill she avoided giving him any clue to her identity. She was going to Portland. That was easy.

Where did she come from? Who was she? Portsmouth was fast approaching. Mr. Pinkham was getting desperate.

'I think you might tell me your name,' he pleaded. 'Natalie.'

'What else?'

'It's not of the least consequence to you. Select any nice name from the "phone book that will go well with the first one. Schermerhorn or Munion, for example, would be excellent.'

'Don't you want to know my name? Don't you want ever to see me again?' asked Mr. Pinkham plaintively.

'I've told you my first name. What is yours?'

'Eddie.'

'Fine. That's all I need. An eddy goes round in a circle. You've cut several circles this morning.'

'I'd like to tell you my last name and give you my address. Please let's exchange, Natalie,' pleaded Mr. Pinkham, though rather hurriedly. The porter was intimating that Portsmouth was near at hand.

'Oh no, not your last name. I . could n't stand it. I know so many Eddies now that I almost cut circles myself. Where I live there are more men than anything else. Cheer up, we can't exchange addresses.'

The train stopped as Mr. Pinkham was fervidly protesting his enjoyment of the morning's experience. The selfpossessed Natalie smiled again. Again she could n't help it. With furtive glance at the projecting ferule of D. Pringle Whitehouse's umbrella, Mr. Pinkham turned reluctantly to depart. Evidently Miss Natalie noticed his glance.

'Remember me to your great uncle, Eddie!' she said and turned to the window.

Mr. Pinkham had not been entirely idle, however. In his pocket he had a very dainty Madeira handkerchief. On the platform he hastily examined it. In one corner were the initials 'N. G.'

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I am in a peck of trouble. I promised to bring back from Bretton Woods for D. Pringle Whitehouse of Jersey City, a big black silk umbrella with ivory handle representing a bunch of grapes and two cupids. I was prevented from returning directly and persuaded Randall to bring the umbrella back. Randall put the job off on someone else he forgets who-thought it was Cobb of Pittsburgh. Cobb denied it and suggested Hotchkiss of New Haven. Hotchkiss also said no, and suggested Penfield of Baltimore. Penfield telegraphs me you are the man.

Meantime Whitehouse is getting very troublesome, and I am much concerned so much so that I am going to stay here in Portsmouth a few days and, while here, try to locate that umbrella. It's pretty valuable, old as the hills, heirloom, and all that. Please help me out. I do hope you have the thing or can tell me where it is so I can go at once and get it.

Yours sincerely,

E. W. PINKHAM,
Asst.-Secretary.

'It's that last sentence. It'll do the trick. I see the gates of Paradise gaily gleaming-gaily gleaming,' sang Mr. Pinkham as he dived into bed.

Nearly a week elapsed before a letter bearing the Williamstown postmark reached the hand of the troubled and somewhat overwrought Assistant-Secretary. It read:

DEAR MR. PINKHAM,

I regret to tell you that you have at last located the guilty party in the

Whitehouse umbrella episode. When I was at Bretton Woods I expected to go directly to New York, so I offered to take that umbrella with me. On reaching Greenfield I decided to go home for a few days and then on to New York. One thing after another has delayed the trip, and the Whitehouse umbrella stood as I supposed -safely in the household umbrella stand. When your letter came I prepared to wrap it securely and express it to you, but it was not to be found. I have searched everywhere, and made inquiries about town, but in vain.

Mrs. Graham suggests that perhaps our daughter, Natalie, took it with her when she left home last week on a trip to Boston and Portland. She was starting without an umbrella, but it may be that after her mother's comments the Whitehouse umbrella appealed to my daughter's sense of humor and that she took the heirloom with her. I can think of no other way to account for its disappearance, and wrote at once to my daughter asking her to reply by return mail and also to write direct to you if she had the umbrella. A letter was received from her to-day but she forgets to make any reference to the umbrella, so all I can do is to send you the facts with deep regret.

You are near Portland. If you have the time and it is worth while, you might make personal inquiry. My daughter is visiting a classmate and will remain another week at least. I enclose a card with the Portland address. You may have heard from her already.

I am really most upset over this, and shall keep searching. With much regret,

Sincerely yours,
DAWSON GRAHAM.

Mr. Pinkham folded up the letter. 'Have you a time-table of trains between Portsmouth and Portland?' he inquired of the hotel clerk most politely.

There was quite another state of Portland, but said nothing about the affairs in Portland. Whitehouse umbrella - because there was nothing to say.

Miss Natalie Graham had arrived safely, bag and baggage, and had been met and demonstratively greeted by Miss Mabel Parkhurst, and thereafter, with beautiful weather and much doing day and evening, a week was slipping by when a letter from Williamstown seemed to disturb Miss Parkhurst's attractive guest.

It was in the forenoon. The two girls were sitting on the broad verandah together. Natalie's face became grave and perplexed.

'Mabel,' she demanded, 'where is that umbrella?'

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'I thought he took it.'

"Took it? Of course not. I must have left it in the Pullman. I have n't given the awful thing a thought since that man got off the car at Portsmouth. I was a fool to take it. It was six feet long and weighed a ton. Nobody needs an umbrella, but Mother insisted and so I took along a monstrosity, and first that man grabbed at it, and now it's lost and father writes for it.'

"The man who scraped acquaintance with you stole it,' said Miss Parkhurst tranquilly.

'He did nothing of the sort. He was a dear. He was no thief,' retorted Natalie.

'He has it.'

'Let's go to the station and see if the umbrella was turned in.'

Half an hour later began a vigorous search for the Whitehouse umbrella, with tracer papers started to the Pullman and to the porter, who, meantime, had been transferred.

And so it happened that Natalie wrote an enthusiastic letter home about

V

It was about five-thirty on a warm bright summer afternoon when Mr. Edward Withers Pinkham ascended the broad verandah-steps of a spacious old-fashioned house in Portland and inquired for Miss Graham.

Mr. Pinkham was blissfully ignorant of the hurried conference that was held upstairs when his card and Professor Graham's introduction were presented to Natalie.

'What shall I do?' she exclaimed distractedly. 'If we could only be sure of hearing from that Lost and Found tracer by to-morrow, somehow I could put him off a day.'

'Nat, you 're too mild. I'll help you see this through. It will not be tomorrow. Prepare for the worst. You don't know railroads. They'll take a week at least. This man seems all right to take on, and we 'll rush him off his feet. We'll kill all his umbrella longings. You vamp him and I'll crowd the social end.'

Nothing in the demure, rather subdued appearance of Natalie Graham, looking wondrously attractive that warm summer afternoon in a gown of filmiest shell-pink voile, remotely suggested a vamp. She greeted the slightly embarrassed Mr. Pinkham very cordially. There was a hint of penitence in her manner (perhaps partly genuine if the tracer could be ignored).

'It was n't necessary to give you my address, as you asked me to do, and I did n't need yours because my father supplied it several days ago. You see, it was all neatly attended to for us.'

'It was a plain case of Providence,' put in Mr. Pinkham eagerly. 'I'm

dreadfully sorry you have been so annoyed over that wretched old umbrella.' The Assistant-Secretary was now serenely tranquil over the Whitehouse relic. Had he not reached the end of the trail? And had the trail not led to a wonderful girl? Blessings on Whitehouse! Hail ivory grapes and cupids!

'Let's go out on the verandah. There's a delightful one at the side of the house.' And Natalie led the way to a vine-protected corner where several big chairs invited to conversation.

'I don't suppose,' added Miss Graham daringly, 'that you want that horrible old umbrella to caress while you talk?'

'Forget it,' said Mr. Pinkham. 'I feel now as though I never wanted to see that umbrella again. And yet,' he added, the natural Pinkham beginning to appear, 'I ought to be more than grateful. Did not those ivory cupids — ” 'My friend, Mabel Parkhurst, Mr. Eddie Pinkham.'

Miss Parkhurst laughed. Miss Graham laughed. Everybody always did laugh when introduced to Mr. Pinkham. On this occasion Mr. Pinkham laughed.

'I heard you say you were grateful,' said Mabel Parkhurst. 'It's too early for that, because you are going to stay to supper, then we 'll take you over to bridge at the Robinson's and a little dance at the end. No excuse.'

'I planned to spend the night at the hotel here in Portland, anyway,' admitted Mr. Pinkham, and so the Whitehouse umbrella was forgotten a second time. The first time Mr. Pinkham airily assumed it was traveling to New York on the arm of Randall, the kindly helper. It was n't. The second time, he assumed just as airily that the grapes and cupids were reposing in Natalie's room. They were not. The Lord only knew where they were reposing just at that moment.

The week which followed was not calculated to encourage meditations on umbrellas. Mr. Edward Withers Pinkham was no anchorite. He was a lively, gregarious soul, and he had progressed so far in the malady of love that he gave no thought to the empty chair on the seventeenth floor of the Engineering Building, New York, and a possibly irate employer. Natalie was so absorbing, so wonderful! Somehow her manner toward him had distinctly changed. Mr. Pinkham could not know that even the Lost and Found Bureau at the Boston Terminal had been appealed to by telephone in vain and that the approaching necessity for a tragic accounting was weighing hourly more and more heavily.

The worst of it for Natalie was that there was something awfully attractive about Eddie. Of course he was a perfect scream. One wanted to laugh every time one looked at him, but he was certainly a peach-so well-bred, so thoughtful of her, so devoted - and she just knew he cared.

VI

This was the general state of affairs in Portland, Maine, on a bright August Tuesday morning when Mr. Pinkham came down rather late to breakfast after a most delightful outing the evening before. A night letter awaited him.

HOW LONG ARE YOU GOING TO STICK
AROUND PORTLAND STOP WHITE-
HOUSE HAS THAT OLD UMBRELLA
YOU KEEP YAPPING ABOUT STOP
YOUR EXCUSE ABSURD STOP CUT
OUT LOAFING AND GET BACK ON
JOB STOP BE AT DESK WEDNESDAY
MORNING OR FIRED

J. C.

The staggering effect of this message on Mr. Edward Withers Pinkham was no greater than that produced in the

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