I hadn’t seen Flo since she was about fourteen, so when I got a letter asking me to call I said I’d go. She was pretty, but the older I get the fewer girls I see that aren’t.

Of course I ought to have known. The letter was addressed with a “For” preceding my name, instead of “City” or the name of the town, Flo had written “Local.” Even a professional detective should have known then.

It was just her refined vocabulary that sent me reeling into the night. She wondered where I “resided” and how long I’d been “located” there; she had “purchased” something; she said “gowned” when she meant “dressed”; she had “gotten” tired, she said, of affectation. She said she had “retired” early the night before, and she spoke of a “boot-limber.”

And as I was leaving she said, “Don’t remain away so long this time. Er—you know—hath no fury like a woman scorned.”