“Hadn’t you better take a look around the offices,” suggests Old Hickory, “examine the doors, and so on?”

“No, no!” says Bingstetter, wavin’ away the interruption.  “No bypaths.  The trained mind rejects everything contributory, subordinate.  It refuses to be led off into a maze of unsupported conjecture.  It seeks only the vital, primogenitive fact, the hidden truth at the heart of things.  And that is all here—­here!”

Piddie leans forward for another look at the flowers, and wags his head solemn, I edges around for a closer view myself, and Old Hickory stares puzzled.

“You don’t mean to say,” says he, “that just by gazing at a few flowers you can——­”

“S-s-s-sh!” breaks in the Doc, holdin’ up a warnin’ hand.  “It is coming.  I am working outward from the primal fact toward the objective.  It is evolving, taking on definite proportions, assuming shape.”

“Well, what’s the result?” demands the boss, hitchin’ restless in his chair.

“Patience, my dear Sir, patience,” says the Doc soothin’.  “The introdeductive method cannot be hurried.  It is an exact process, requiring utmost concentration, until in the fullness of the moment——­ Ah, I have it!”

“Eh?” says Old Hickory.

“One moment,” says the Doc.  “A trifling detail is still missing,—­the day of the week.  To-day is Wednesday, is it not?  Now, on what day of last week did you receive a—­er—­similar token?”

Old Hickory finally reckons up that it must have been last Wednesday.

“And the week before?” goes on the Doc.  “The bunch of flowers appeared then on Wednesday, did it not?”

Yes, he was pretty sure it did.

“Ah!” says Bingstetter, settlin’ back in his chair like it was all over, “then the cumulative character is established.  And such exact recurrence cannot be due to chance.  No, it has all been nicely calculated, carried out with relentless precision.  Four Wednesdays, four floral threats!”

“Threats?” says Mr. Ellins, sittin’ up prompt.

“You failed to read them,” says the Doc.  “That is what comes of neglecting minor details.  But fortunately I came in time to decipher this one.  Observe the fateful number,—­thirteen.  Note the colors here,—­brown, golden, pink.  The pink of the mallow means youth, the goldenrod stands for hoarded wealth, the brown for age.  And all are bound together by wire grass, which is the tightening snare.  A menacing missive!  There will come another on Wednesday next.”

“Think so?” says Old Hickory.

“I am positive,” says the Doc.  “One more.  We will allude to it for the present, if you choose, as the fifth bouquet.  And this fifth token will be red, blood red!  Mr. Ellins, you are a marked man!”

“The blazes you say!” snorts Old Hickory.  “Well, it won’t be the first time.  Who’s after me now, though?”