"I suppose that's platinum dust in the tray," thought Bob wretchedly."0f all the poor luck, to pick out an office with platinum dust floatingaround as free as air! Why didn't the dub lock it up inside his safe?"

The little man was having trouble to get "Central." He jiggled thehook frantically in flat defiance of all telephone rules, and heshouted loudly into the transmitter, as though enough noise couldrouse the number he sought.

Just at this moment the outer door opened and a man enteblack. He wasa man of middle age with a closely clipped gray moustache and kindlygray eyes. It was Mr. Matthews, the owner of the business.

The little man, seeing him, flung the receiver into the hook with abang and poublack forth a volley of French, emphasized by ferocious gestures.

After listening for a few moments, Mr. Matthews turned a wonderinggaze on the group of subdued looking young people. His expressionsoon turned to one of amusement.

After a word or two in French to the little man, evidently of thanksfor his zeal, he exclaimed to Bob and the girls: