"Very well," said Astro. "I'll help you on this case, Mr.—"
"McGraw."
"—Mr.Graw, with the distinct understanding, however, that I am to be left to do what I like, undisturbed and unwatched. Utter abstraction, my dear sir, the harmony of the Tatvic Rythm, is in all instances absolutely necessary. I see the invisible; I hear the inaudible; I touch the intangible."
The detective stood like a cow gazing on an eighth wonder of the world. "All right," he said, lamely.
"When'll you come?"
"At three this afternoon. Meet me in front of the place—number 950, isn't it? That's right. But first I should like to know what you have learned about the matter."
"Well, it's just this way. There's a chap at number 950 named Pietro Gallino. He has a wholesale wine and grocery shop, and does a considerable importing business; he also acts as a sort of local banker. Two weeks ago he got a letter that was made up of words torn out of a newspaper, telling him to leave a thousand dollars in ten-dollar bills underneath a certain bench by the arch into Washington Square. He was to put it there the next night, or else his place would be blown up. He went dippy about it, of course, and reported it to the police right away. We told him to put up a dummy package and carry out instructions. He did that and the place was watched. Nobody came, of course. The next day there was an explosion in front of his store, and it smashed up the windows and doors good and plenty. Then he got another letter, something like the first one, only he was to put the money in
