I dropped the paper in dismay. Charlotte looked up, startled, gave me a
single look, and turned pale,
“What--what's the matter?” she stammered fearfully.
I showed her. Then I ran to the phone. In a few seconds I was talking to
the very man who had taken the note from the messenger the day before.
“Yes, I handed it in along with the rest,” he replied to my excited
query. Then--“Wait a minute,” said he; and a moment later added: “Say,
Mr. Fenton, I've made a mistake! Here's the darned ad on the counter; it
must have slipped under the blotter.”
I went back and told Charlotte. We stared at one another blankly. Why
in the name of all that was baffling had our ad “slipped” under that
blotter? And what were we to do?
This was the second day!
Well, we did what we could. We arranged for the insertion of the same
notice in each of the three afternoon papers. There would still be time
for the Rhamda to act, if he saw it.
The hours dragged by. Never did time pass more slowly; and yet, I
begrudged every one. So much for being absolutely helpless.
About ten o'clock the next morning--that is to say, today; I am writing
this the same evening--the front door bell rang. Charlotte answered and
in a moment came back with a card. It read: