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“How should I know it?” he yelled at me. He always yelled when he was beginning to lose his temper. They were used to it at his office, and no one any longer paid any attention to the agonized screams of rage and excitement that were constantly emanating from Ike Humbert’s private office.

“How should I know it?” he repeated. “Would I send for a detective if I knew it myself? You're supposed to be able to find out such things, not? Go ahead and find out.”

I was silent for a moment, for there was no use in engaging in this kind of a discussion with Ike. One got nowhere. Then I said:

“Have you any ideas in the matter at all? Have you the slightest inkling as to what might be the origin of these notes. Have you discharged anyone lately, or—”

“Not the slightest idea,” said Ike, changing his front disconcertingly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I'd pay a great deal of attention to them, if I were you. If you'll just have an extra man or two in the theater tomorrow night—I’ll get the tickets for you—and be back stage yourself, that'll reassure Augustin Arnold, and that’s all I want. If he feels at all nervous, it might affect his acting. These temperamental actors . . .” he sighed and gazed at me for sympathy.

“All right,” I said, rising, for he was already beginning

to look at some of the papers on his desk, in-