Judge — September 11, 1920 — page 5: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Girl in the Green Box A Yellowish Detective Story with a Saffron Finish By Ge Author of “Are You a Bromide?” “Goops and How to Be Them “The Yellowish Mystery CHAPTER I ‘t Y daughter Dainty she is lost!” wailed Mrs. De Jijjiji into her real lace handkerchief—or, if not real lace, it was at least real handkerchief. “She is lost, Mr. Ferret!” And her very pearls seemed unstrung. “Calm yourself, madam,” implored the Albinodetective. “It may be that she is only misplaced.” “Alas, that’s what I am afraid of! What if she has gone and done something disgraceful—married a ukulele player—or an author? Why, she may be down in some morbid eenwich Vv illage shop even now, committing paper-ha anging! Surely not that!” interspersed Ferret, “so prettiful a girl could never be a hangster.”” “It may be worse . De Jiij barking in their crystal globe. “Why, d’you know, Mr. Ferret, when I looked through Dainty’s desk, after her disappearance, I found that she had secretly been taking a correspondence course in undertaking! She ray have undertaken some one alre: 's moans set the goldfish said Ferret, I shall certainly investigate the cemeteries. “and ascertain if there are any signs of ateurish work, Meanwhile let me ask, had Dainty a lover? y gent friend, so to speak, common or preferred? And as to which, who was it kissed her most successfully?” Mrs. De Jijjiji for a moment looked as if she had swallowed an elderly oyster; then she recovered her usual unanimity. “Why, she was engaged to’ a artist named Webfoot. He draws those eight-foot Elsies, you know, who wear suc h exciting undies in the Frantic Fashions Mage “He and Dainty guarraled! no doubt, between kissing—or perhaps even while which?” “Of course, though, he was often sampling her. BurGEss nur ” Ete. ce in a Hurry,” “Ain't Angie Awful!” You sce, Dainty wanted to pose for him, she always considered herself very good form; but she was only five feet eleven. The fashion editor, naturally, allowed him to portray only half witted ladies. And Dainty, besides, had a No, three-A mouth. It just fitted his—I have often watched him trying it on.” Ferret had already arosen. Reassuringly he patted the lady on the ear, leaving four dark-brown finger-prints. “I shall find her.” he said, ‘if she is to be founded! Trust your Uncle Paul.” And the joke of it was that Ferret’s name wasn’t Paul at all, it was Saul! CHAPTER II Intramural Eavesdripping HE sun had scarcely sat before Ferret had tracked Webfoot to his liar, in South zooth St. Disguised as a wealthy Venezuelan tripe manufacturer, he rented a misses’ size room separated from the artist’s studio by a mere partition. It was so mere, in fact, that, with little difficulty and a big corkscrew he had soon pierced a hole giving him a view of about three ts’ worth of Webfoot’s sky-lighted haunt. Perched unsteadily upon a three-limbed table tip-toe atop his bed, long the Albinodetective sat and watched into that hole. But he saw nothing—it was all there was to see. He even heard it, too. And nothing to smell there was except the dying odor of old dates the artist had kept in that room—and gradually, something else, too, that as the days passed, grew more and more so. So time passed sadsomely, like a poker player trying in vain to fill a bobbed-haired flush, Came a wild Wednesday, as Wednesdays will, sometimes, and at last Ferret’s lonely Virgil was rewardified. Into that hole (from the other end, of course) came a singular sight. It was a woman’s foot—bare, ce — — ey