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“E-zactly so!” said Mr. Gubb with emphasis.

“Now, just a minute,” said Mr. Burch. “One of these Bilton signatures is ‘M. Bilton’ and the other is ‘Max Bilton.’ You don’t recall which was on the paper when you signed, do you?”

“Mr. Burch,” said Mr. Gubb, “I wasn’t taking no extra time to find out if a no-account feller like Mustard Bilton signed his name M. or Max or Methuselah. No, sir.”

“Do you know where Mustard Bilton is now?” asked Judge Mackinnon.

“Don’t know,” said Mr. Gubb.

The three lawyers consulted for a minute or two. Then the Judge turned to Gubb again.

“And did Mr. O’Hara say anything more on the occasion when you signed the will?” asked the Judge.

“He said, ‘Thank you,'” said Mr. Gubb. “He said, ‘Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.'”

Higgins and Burch laughed, and even the Judge smiled, and they told Mr. Gubb he could go.

An hour or three quarters of an hour after he had been called to identify his signature to the wills, a gentle tap at Mr. Gubb’s door caused him to look up from the pamphlet–Lesson Four, Rising Sun Detective Agency’s Correspondence School of Detecting–he was reading.

“Come on right in,” he called, and in answer the door opened and a young woman entered. She was a sweet-faced, modest-appearing girl, and when she pushed back her veil, Mr. Gubb saw she had been weeping, for her eyes were red. Mr. Gubb hastily pulled out his desk chair.

“Take a seat and set down, ma’am,” he said politely. “Is there anything in my lines I can be doing for you to-day?”

“Are you Mr. Philo Gubb?” she asked, seating herself.

“Yes’m, paper-hanging and deteckating done,” he said.

“It’s about a dog, my dog,” said the young woman. “He’s lost, or stolen, and–“

Emotion choked her words.

“I know it sounds foolish to ask a detective to look for a dog,” she said with a poor attempt at a smile, “but–“

“In the deteckative line nothing sounds foolish,” said Mr. Gubb with politeness.

“But Uncle Haddon told me once that if ever I needed a–a detective I should come to you,” the young woman continued. “You knew Uncle Haddon, Mr. Gubb?”

“I had the pleasure of being known to and knowing of him,” said Mr. Gubb.

“My name is Dolly O’Hara! I am his niece.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” said Philo Gubb, and he shook hands gravely.

“He gave me my dog,” said Miss O’Hara. “He gave him to me when the dog was just a puppy, and he called him Waffles. He used to joke about my loving the dog more than I loved him. He used to say–“

Miss O’Hara wiped her eyes. For a moment she could not speak.

“He used to say,” she continued in a moment, “that I’d never break my heart over a lost uncle, but that if I lost Waffles I’d die of grief. It wasn’t so, of course. But I’m heart-broken to have Waffles gone. He is all I’ll have to remember Uncle Haddon by. And then–to have him–go!”

“I should take it a pleasure to be employed upon a case to fetch him back,” said Mr. Gubb.

“Oh, would you?” cried Miss O’Hara. “I’m so glad! I was afraid a–a real detective might not want to bother with a dog. Of course I’ll pay–“

“The remuneration will be minimum on account of the smallness of the crime under the statutes made and provided,” said Mr. Gubb.

“But you must let me pay!” urged Miss O’Hara. “One of the things Uncle Haddon said was, ‘If you ever lose that dog, Dolly, hire Detective Gubb. Understand? He’s a wonderful detective. He’ll leave no stone unturned. He’ll find your dog. He’ll pry the roof off the dog-house to find a flea, and when he’s found the flea he’ll hunt up a blond dog to match it. Remember,’ he said, ‘if you lose the dog, get Gubb.'”

“I consider the compliment the highest form of flattery,” said Mr. Gubb.

“So I want you to try to find Waffles, please, if it isn’t beneath you to hunt a dog,” said Miss O’Hara. “How much will you charge to find Waffles, Mr. Gubb?”