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Mr. Gubb, having read this letter, shook his head and placed the letter on top of those he had previously read. It was signed with the wiggle like the others.

“Speaking as a deteckative,” he said, “I don’t see anything into these letters yet that would fetch the writer into the grasp of the law. Are they all like this?”

“If you mean do they say they are going to murder me, or do they call me names,” said Miss Scroggs, “they don’t. Here, take them!”

Mr. Gubb took the remaining letters and read them. There were about a dozen of them. While peculiar epistles to write to a maiden lady of forty-five years, they were not what one might call violent. They were, in part, as follows:–

PETUNIA:–

Although a cat with a fit is a lively object, it has seldom been known to attack human beings. Cause of fits–too rich food. Cure of fits–less rich food.

MISS SCROGGS:–

If soil is inclined to be sour, a liberal sprinkling of lime, well ploughed in, has a good effect. Marble dust, where easily obtainable, serves as well.

MISS PETUNIA:–

Swedish iron is largely used in the manufacture of upholstery tacks because of its peculiar ductile qualities.

“I don’t see nothing much into them,” said Mr. Gubb, when he had read them all. “I don’t see much of a deteckative case into them. If I was to get letters like these I wouldn’t worry much about them. I’d let them come.”

“You may say that,” said Miss Petunia, “because you are a man, and big and strong and brave-like. But when a person is a woman, and lives alone, and has some money laid by that some folks would be glad enough to get, letters coming right along from she don’t know who, scare her. Every time I get another of those Anonymous Wiggle letters I get more and more nervous. If they said, ‘Give me five thousand dollars or I will kill you,’ I would know what to do, but when a letter comes that says, like that one does, ‘Swedish iron is largely used in the manufacture of upholstery tacks,’ I don’t know what to think or what to do.”

“I can see to understand that it might worry you some,” said Mr. Gubb sympathetically. “What do you want I should do?”

“I want you should find out who wrote the letters,” said Miss Scroggs.

Mr. Gubb looked at the pile of letters.

“It’s going to be a hard job,” he said. “I’ve got to try to guess out a cryptogram in these letters. I ought to have a hundred dollars.”

“It’s a good deal, but I’ll pay it,” said Miss Petunia. “I ain’t rich, but I’ve got quite a little money in the bank, and I own the house I live in and a farm I rent. Pa left me money and property worth about ten thousand dollars, and I haven’t wasted it. So go ahead.”

“I’ll so do,” said Philo Gubb; “and first off I’ll ask you who your neighbors are.”

“My neighbors!” exclaimed Miss Petunia.

“On both sides,” said Mr. Gubb, “and who comes to your house most?”

“Well, I declare!” said Miss Petunia. “I don’t know what you are getting at, but on one side I have no neighbors at all, and on the other side is Mrs. Canterby. I guess she comes to my house oftener than anybody else.”

“I am acquainted with Mrs. Canterby,” said Mr. Gubb. “I did a job of paper-hanging there only last week.”

“Did you, indeed?” said Miss Scroggs politely. “She’s a real nice lady.”

“I don’t give opinions on deteckative matters until I’m sure,” said Mr. Gubb. “She seems nice enough to the naked eye. I don’t want to get you to suspicion her or nobody, Miss Scroggs, but about the only clue I can grab hold of is that first letter you got. It said to look on page fourteen, and all the pages by that number was torn out of your books–“