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morning. I thought perhaps it was something in connection with the accident to his hands. He has never done anything about collecting any of the five-thousand-dollar insurance he took out on them two years ago. But whether that was it or not I can't tell you. He kept me waiting the best part of half an hour. I could not help hearing Mr. Franetti's display of temper. Perhaps that upset Jock. Anyhow when Franetti went away, fuming, five minutes later Jock leaned out of his workshop door and curtly informed me that he had changed his mind–he didn't say about what -and told me to leave."
    "I'm so sorry, Dick," murmured Delia. "That was rude of him." Then her voice took on a strangely eager note. "Did he leave the door of his workshop open?"
    Dick Wilkinson wrinkled his brow. "Why yes, I – I believe he did. At least, that was my impression. But, Delia–"
    Delia had already slipped on ahead, running swiftly up the steps. Hastily I said good-by to the perplexed insurance agent and I followed her.
    When I reached the second floor I went into a short hall. Through an open door I glimpsed the closely-ranked seats of the puppet theater. Delia was vanishing through another door down the hall. I followed her.
    Just as I came into a small reception room, I heard her scream.
    "George! George! He's whipping the puppet!"
    With that bewildering statement ringing in my ears, I darted into what I took to be Jock Lathrop's workshop, then pulled up short. It too was dim, but not as dim as the hall. I could see tables and racks of various kinds, and other paraphernalia.
    Delia was cowering back against a wall, stark fear in her eyes. But my attention was riveted on the small, stocky man in the center of the room – Delia's husband. On, or in , his left hand was a puppet. His gloved right hand held a miniature cat-o'-nine-tails and he was lashing the puppet. And the little manikin was writhing and flailing its arms protectively in a manner so realistic that it took my breath away. In that strange setting I could almost imagine I heard a squeaking, protesting voice. Indeed, the realism was such and the grin on Lathrop's face so malign that I heard myself saying:
    "Stop it, Jock! Stop it!"
    He looked up, saw me, and burst into peals of laughter. His snub-nosed, sallow face was contorted into a mask of comedy. I had expected anything but that.
    "So even the skeptical George Clayton, hard-boiled sleuth, is taken in by my cheap illusions!" he finally managed to say.
    Then he stopped chuckling and drew himself up nonchalantly, like a magician about to perform a feat of sleight-of-hand. He tossed the whip onto a nearby table, seized the puppet with his right hand and, to all appearances, wiggled his left hand out of it. Then he quickly flipped me the limp form, thrust both hands into his pockets, and began to whistle.
    Delia gave a low, whimpering cry and ran out of the room. If it had been easy for me to imagine a tiny, nude creature scuttling away behind Jock, half concealed by his left hand, what must it have been for her, in her tortured, superstitious state?
    "Examine the thing, George," Lathrop directed coolly. "Is it a puppet, or isn't it?"
    I looked down at the bundle of cloth and papier-mâché I had caught instinctively. It was a puppet all right, and in general workmanship precisely similar to the one Delia had shown me at my office. Its garments, however, were a gay, motley patchwork. I recognized the long nose and sardonic, impudent features of Punch.
    I was fascinated by the delicate craftsmanship. The face lacked the brutishness of Jack Ketch, but it had a cunning, hair-trigger villainy all its own. Somehow it looked like a composite of all the famous criminals and murderers I had ever read about. As the murderous hero of Punch and Judy , it was magnificent.
    But I had not come here to admire puppets.
    "Look here, Jock," I said, "what the devil have you been doing to Delia? The poor girl's frightened to death."
    He