My troubles began right at the start.  I had to hunt the address up on a city map, and when I’d located it on the lower West Side, down in the warehouse district, I’m sure of one thing—­this Mrs. Bagstock can’t be such-a-much.  If I had any doubts they was knocked out by the sign hung alongside the front door—­“Furnished Rooms.”

I expect it had been quite a decent old house in its day—­one of these full-width brick affairs, with fancy iron grill-work on either side of the brownstone steps and a fan-light over the door.  There was even an old-fashioned bell-pull that was almost equal to a wall exerciser for workin’ up your muscle.  I was still pumpin’ away energetic, not hearin’ any results inside, when the door is jerked open, and a perky young female with the upper part of her face framed in kid curlers and a baby-blue boudoir cap glares at me unpleasant.

“Humph!” says she.  “Tryin’ to play ‘Rag-Time Temple Bells,’ are you?”

“Then I did register a tinkle, did I?” says I.

“Tinkle!  More like a riot call,” says she.  “Want to look at rooms?”

“Not exactly,” says I.  “You see, I’m representin’—­”

“Are you?” she crashes in crisp.  “Well, say, you fresh agents are goin’ to overwork this comedy cut-up act with our bell one of these times.  Go on.  Shoot it.  What you want to wish on us—­instalment player-piano, electric dish-washer, magazine subscriptions, or—­”

“Excuse me,” I cuts in, producin’ the letter; “but, while you’re a grand little guesser, your start is all wrong.  I came to see Mrs. Bagstock about this.  Lives here, don’t she?”

“Oh, Auntie?” says the young party in the boudoir cap.  “Then I guess you can come in.  Now, lemme see.  What’s this all about?  H-m-m-m!  Stocks, eh?  Just a jiffy while I go through this.”

Durin’ which I’ve been shooed into the parlor.  Some parlor it is, too.  I don’t know when I’ve seen a room that came so near whinin’ about better days gone by.  Every piece of furniture, from the threadbare sofa to the rickety center table, seems kind of sad and sobby.

Nothing old-timey about this young female that’s studyin’ out Mrs. Bagstock’s letter.  Barrin’ the floppy cap, she’s costumed zippy enough in what I should judge was a last fall’s tango dress.  As she reads she yanks gum industrious.

“Say,” she breaks out, “this is all Dutch to me.  Who’s bein’ called down, anyway?”

“We are,” says I.  “The Corrugated Trust.  I’m private sec. there.  I’ve come around to show Mrs. Bagstock where she’s sized us up wrong, and if I could have five minutes’ talk with her—­”

“Well, you can’t, that’s all,” says the young lady.  “So speed up and tell it to me.”

Course, I wasn’t doin’ that.  We holds quite a debate on the subject without my scorin’ any points at all.  She tells me how she’s a niece by marriage of Mrs. Bagstock, and the unregrettin’ widow of the late Dick McCloud, who up to a year ago was the only survivin’ relative of his dear aunt.