The Deadly Percheron

my word for it that it may have a great deal of bearing on your problem,” I said.

He was reluctant to begin. Nor was he as much at ease as he had been before. He had stopped smiling, and his eyes were dull.

“I’m a Dead-End Kid,” he said, “who was raised on Park Avenue. You probably know all about my old man, John Blunt. He had more money than was good for him. Just about the time of the first World War he sold his carriage-making business to one of the big automobile companies and from then on he was rolling in dough. He bought himself a seat on the Exchange and kept right on making money until he died of apoplexy a few years back. He left all his dough to me, but he tied it up in a trust so I can’t get at it until I’m twenty-five.”

“How old are you now?”

“I’m twenty-three. I’ve two more years to go. But that isn’t what worries me. I’ve got plenty of dough.”

“Yes,” I said,