“I haven’t seen them, Joe,” she said. “They must be where you left them.”

It was exactly the kind of answer I should have expected.

“Bill might know,” I said.

“He’s scarcely been in the house all day. When he does show up, you’ve got to speak to him.”

“What’s the matter now?”

“It’s this trading business. He traded off that new belt we got him for a pair of spurs.”

“I can’t see anything wrong in that. When I was a kid…”

“It’s not just the belt,” she said. “He’s traded everything.

And the worst of it is that he always seems to get the best of it.”

“The kid’s smart.”

“If you take that attitude, Joe…”

“It’s not my attitude,” I said. “It’s the attitude of the whole business world. When Bill grows up…”

“When he grows up, he’ll be in prison. Why, the way he trades, you’d swear he was training to be a con man!”

“All right, I’ll talk to him.”

I went back into the den because the atmosphere wasn’t exactly as friendly as it might have been and, anyhow, I had to send out those cheques, stamps or no stamps.

I got the pile of bills and the cheque-book and the fountain pen out of the drawer. I reached out and picked up the Bildo-Block to put it to one side, so I’d have a good, clear space to work on. But the moment I picked it up, I knew that this thing was no Bildo-Block.

It was the fight size and weight and was black and felt like plastic, except that it was slicker than any plastic I had ever felt.

It felt as if it had oil on it, only it didn’t.

I set it down in front of me and pulled the desk lamp closer.

But there wasn’t much to see. It still looked like one of the Bildo-Blocks.

Turning it around, I tried to make out what it was. On the second turn, I saw the faint oblong depression along one side of it—a very shallow depression, almost like a scratch.