AVERAGE JONES

By Samuel Hopkins Adams

CHAPTER I. THE B-FLAT TROMBONE

Three men sat in the Cosmic Club discussing the question: "What's thematter with Jones?" Waldemar, the oldest of the conferees, was theowner, and at times the operator, of an important and decent newspaper. His heavy face wore the expression of good-humored power, characteristicof the experienced and successful journalist. Beside him sat RobertBertram, the club idler, slender and languidly elegant. The third memberof the conference was Jones himself. 

Average Jones had come by his nickname inevitably. His parents hadforedoomed him to it when they furnished him with the initials A. V. R. E. As preface to his birthright of J for Jones. His character apparentlyjustified the chance concomitance. He was, so to speak, a compositephotograph of any thousand well-conditioned, clean-living Americansbetween the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Happily, his otherwisecommonplace face was relieved by the one unfailing characteristic ofcomposite photographs, large, deep-set and thoughtful eyes. Otherwise hewould have passed in any crowd, and nobody would have noticed him pass. Now, at twenty-seven, he looked back over the five years since hisgraduation from college and wondered what he had done with them; and atthe four previous years of undergraduate life and wondered how he haddone so well with those and why he had not in some manner justified theparting words of his favorite professor. 

"You have one rare faculty, Jones. You can, when you choose, sharpenthe pencil of your mind to a very fine point. Specialize, my boy, specialize. "

If the recipient of this admonition had specialized in anything, it wasin life. Having twenty-five thousand a year of his own he might havecontinued in that path indefinitely, but for two influences. One was anirruptive craving within him to take some part in the dynamic activitiesof the surrounding world. The other was the "freak" will of his lateand little-lamented uncle, from whom he had his present income, and hisfuture expectations of some ten millions. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton had, as Waldemar once put it, "--one into the mayor's chair with a good nameand come out with a block of ice stock. " In a will whose cynical humorwas the topic of its day, Mr. Egerton jeered posthumously at the publicwhich he had despoiled, and promised restitution, of a sort, through hisheir. 

"Therefore, " he had written, "I give and bequeath to the said Adrian VanReypen Egerton Jones, the residue of my property, the principal to betaken over by him at such time as he shall have completed five years ofcontinuous residence in New York City. After such time the virus of themetropolis will have worked through his entire being. He will squanderhis unearned and undeserved fortune, thus completing the vicious circle, and returning the millions acquired by my political activities, in apoisoned shower upon the city, for which, having bossed, bullied andlooted it, I feel no sentiment other than contempt. "

"And now, " remarked Waldemar in his heavy, rumbling voice, "you aspireto disappoint that good old man. "

"It's only human nature, you know, " said Average Jones. "When a manputs a ten-million-dollar curse on you and suggests that you haven't thebackbone of a shrimp, you--you--"

"--naturally yearn to prove him a liar, " supplied Bertram. 

"Exactly. Anyway, I've no taste for dissipation, either moral orfinancial. I want action; something to do. I'm bored in this infernalcity. "

"The wail of the unslaked romanticist, " commented Bertram. 

"Romanticist nothing!" protested the other. "My ambitions are practicalenough if I could only get 'em stirred up. "

"Exactly. Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst. You're panting for romance, for something bizarre. Egypt and St. Petersburg and Buenos Ayres and Samoa have all become commonplace toyou. You've overdone them. That's why you're back here in New Yorkwaiting with stretched nerves for the Adventure of Life to cat-creep upfrom behind and toss the lariat of rainbow dreams over your shoulders. "

Waldemar laughed. "Not a bad diagnosis. Why don't you take up a hobby, Mr. Jones?"

"What kind of a hobby?"

"Any kind. The club is full of hobby-riders. Of all people that I know, they have the keenest appetite for life. Look at old Denechaud; he was amisanthrope until he took to gathering scarabs. Fenton, over there, hasthe finest collection of circus posters in the world. Bellerding's houseis a museum of obsolete musical instruments. De Gay collects venomousinsects from all over the world; no harmless ones need apply. Terriberryhas a mania for old railroad tickets. Some are really very curious. I'veoften wished I had the time to be a crank. It's a happy life. "

"What line would you choose?" asked Bertram languidly. 

"Nobody has gone in for queer advertisements yet, I believe, " repliedthe older man. "If one could take the time to follow them up---but itwould mean all one's leisure. "

"Would it be so demanding a career?" said Average Jones, smiling. 

"Decidedly. I once knew a man who gave away twenty dollars daily onclues from the day's news. He wasn't bored for lack of occupation. "

"But the ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effort tosell something by yelling in print, " objected Average Jones. 

"Is it? Well perhaps you don't look in the right place. "

Waldemar reached for the morning's copy of the Universal and ran his eyedown the columns of "classified" matter. "Hark to this, " he said, andread:

 "Is there any work on God's green earth for a man who has just got to have it?"

"Or this:

 "WANTED--A venerable looking man with white beard and medical degree. Good pay to right applicant. "

"What's that?" asked Average Jones with awakened interest. 

"Only a quack medical concern looking for a stall to impress theircome-ons, " explained Waldemar. 

Average Jones leaned over to scan the paper in his turn. 

"Here's one, " said he, and read:

 WANTED--Performer on B-flat trombone. Can use at once. Apply with instrument, after 1 p. M. 300 East 100th Street. 

"That seems ordinary enough, " said Waldemar. 

"What's it doing in a daily paper? There must be--er--technicalpublications--er--journals, you know, for this sort of demand. "

"When Average's words come slow, you've got him interested, " commentedBertram. "Sure sign. "

"Nevertheless, he's right, " said Waldemar. "It is rather misplaced. "

"How is this for one that says what it means?" said Bertram. 

 WANTED--At once, a brass howitzer and a man who isn't afraid to handle it. Mrs. Anne Cullen, Pier 49 1/2 East River. 

"The woman who is fighting the barge combine, " explained Waldemar. "Notso good as it looks. She's bluffing. "

"Anyway, I'd like a shy at this business, " declared Average Jones withsudden conviction. "It looks to me like something to do. "

"Make it a business, then, " advised Waldemar. "If you care really to goin for it, my newspaper would be glad to pay for information such as youmight collect. We haven't time, for example, to trace down fraudulentadvertisers. If you could start an enterprise of that sort, you'dcertainly find it amusing, and, at times, perhaps, even adventurous. "

"I wouldn't know how to establish it, " objected Average Jones. 

The newspaper owner drew a rough diagram on a sheet of paper and filledit in with writing, crossing out and revising liberally. Divided, uponhis pattern, into lines, the final draft read:

 HAVE YOU BEEN STUNG?

 Thousands have. Thousands will be. They're Laying for You. 

 WHO? The Advertising Crooks. 

 A. JONES Ad-Visor Can Protect You Against Them. 

 Before Spending Your Money Call on Him. Advice on all Subjects Connected with Newspaper, Magazine or Display Advertising. Free Consultation to Persons Unable to Pay. Call or Write, Enclosing Postage. This Is On The Level. 

"Ad-Visor! Do you expect me to blight my budding career by a poisonouspun like that?" demanded Average Jones with a wry face. 

"It may be a poisonous pun, but it's an arresting catch-word, " saidWaldemar, unmoved. "Single column, about fifty lines will do it in nice, open style. Caps and lower case, and black-faced type for the name andtitle. Insert twice a week in every New York and Brooklyn paper. "

"Isn't it--er--a little blatant?" suggested Bertram, with liftedeyebrows. 

"Blatant?" repeated its inventor. "It's more than that. It's howlinglyvulgar. It's a riot of glaring yellow. How else would you expect tocatch the public?"

"Suppose, then, I do burst into flame to this effect?" queried theprospective "Ad-Visor. " "Et apres? as we proudly say after spending aweek in Paris. "

"Apres? Oh, plenty of things. You hire an office, a clerk, twostenographers and a clipping export, and prepare to take care of thework that comes in. You'll be flooded, " promised Waldemar. 

"And between times I'm to go skipping about, chasing long white whiskersand brass howitzers and B-flat trombones, I suppose. "

"Until you get your work systematized you'll have no time for skipping. Within six months, if you're not sandbagged or jailed on fake libelsuits, you'll have a unique bibliography of swindles. Then I'll begin tocome and buy your knowledge to keep my own columns clean. "

The speaker looked up to meet the gaze of an iron-gray man with a harsh, sallow face. 

"Excuse my interrupting, " said the new-comer. 

"Just one question, Waldemar. Who's going to be the nominee?"

"Linder. "

"Linder? Surely not! Why, his name hasn't been heard. "

"It will be. "

"His Federal job?"

"He resigns in two weeks. "

"His record will kill him. "

"What record? You and I know he's a grafter. But can we prove anything?His clerk has always handled all the money. "

"Wasn't there an old scandal--a woman case?"' asked the questionervaguely. 

"That Washington man's wife? Too old. Linder would deny it flatly, andthere would be no witnesses. The woman is dead--killed by his brutaltreatment of her, they say. But the whole thing was hushed up at thetime by Linder's pull, and when the husband threatened to kill himLinder quietly set a commissioner of insanity on the case and hadthe man put away. He's never appeared since. No, that wouldn't bepolitically effective. "

The gray man nodded, and walked away, musing. 

"Egbert, the traction boss, " explained Waldemar. "We're generally onopposite sides, but this time we're both against Linder. Egbert wants acheaper man for mayor. I want a straighter one. And I could get him thisyear if Linder wasn't so well fortified. However, to get back to ourproject, Mr. Jones--"

Get back to it they did with such absorption that when the group brokeup, several hours later, Average Jones was committed, by plan and rote, to the new and hopeful adventure of Life. 

In the great human hunt which ever has been and ever shall be till "thelast bird flies into the last light"--some call it business, some callit art, some call it love, and a very few know it for what it is, thevery mainspring of existence--the path of the pursuer and the prey oftenrun obscurely parallel. What time the Honorable William Linder maturedhis designs on the mayoralty, Average Jones sat in a suite of officesin Astor Court, a location which Waldemar had advised as being central, expensive, and inspirational of confidence, and considered, with awhirling brain, the minor woes of humanity. Other people's troubleshad swarmed down upon him in answer to his advertised offer of help, as sparrows flock to scattered bread crumbs. Mostly these were of thelesser order of difficulties; but for what he gave in advice and helpthe Ad-Visor took payment in experience and knowledge of human nature. Still it was the hard, honest study, and the helpful toil which held himto his task, rather than the romance and adventure which he had hopedfor and Waldemar had foretold--until, in a quiet, street in Brooklyn, ofwhich he had never so much as heard, there befell that which, first ofmany events, justified the prophetic Waldemar and gave Average Jonesa part in the greater drama of the metropolis. The party of the secondpart was the Honorable William Linder. 

Mr. , Linder sat at five P. M. , of an early summer day, behind lock andbolt. The third floor front room of his ornate mansion on Brooklyn'sPark Slope was dedicated to peaceful thought. Sprawled in a huge andsoftly upholstered chair at the window, he took his ease in his house. The chair had been a recent gift from an anonymous admirer whosepolitical necessities, the Honorable Mr. Linder idly surmised, hadnot yet driven him to reveal his identity. Its occupant stretched hisshoeless feet, as was his custom, upon the broad window-sill, flooded bythe seasonable warmth of sunshine, the while he considered the ripeningmayoralty situation. He found it highly satisfactory. In the language ofhis inner man, it was a cinch. 

Below, in Kennard Street, a solitary musician plodded. Hispretzel-shaped brass rested against his shoulder. He appeared to be the"scout" of one of those prevalent and melancholious German bands, which, under Brooklyn's easy ordinances, are privileged to draw echoes of thepast writhing from their forgotten recesses. The man looked slowly abouthim as if apprising potential returns. His gravid glance encounteredthe prominent feet in the third story window of the Linder mansion, andrested. He moved forward. Opposite the window he paused. He raised themouthpiece to his lips and embarked on a perilous sea of notes fromwhich the tutored ear might have inferred that once popular ditty, Egypt. 

Love of music was not one of the Honorable William Linder's attributes. An irascible temper was. Of all instruments the B-flat trombonepossesses the most nerve-jarring tone. The master of the mansion leapedfrom his restful chair. Where his feet had ornamented the coping hisface now appeared. Far out he leaned, and roared at the musician below. The brass throat blared back at him, while the soloist, his eyes closedin the ecstasy of art, brought the "verse" part of his selection toan excruciating conclusion, half a tone below pitch. Before the chorusthere was a brief pause for effect. In this pause, from Mr. Linder'sopen face a voice fell like a falling star. Although it did not cry"Excelsior, " its output of vocables might have been mistaken, bya casual ear, for that clarion call. What the Honorable Mr. Linderactually shouted was:

"Getthehelloutofhere!"

The performer upturned a mild and vacant face. "What you say?" heinquired in a softly Teutonic accent. 

The Honorable William Linder made urgent gestures, like a brakeman. 

"Go away! Move on!"

The musician smiled reassuringly. 

"I got already paid for this, " he explained. 

Up went the brass to his lips again. The tonal stairway which leads upto the chorus of Egypt rose in rasping wailfulness. It culminated in anexcessive, unendurable, brazen shriek--and the Honorable William Linderexperienced upon the undefended rear of his person the most violent kickof a lifetime not always devoted to the arts of peace. It projected himclear of the window-sill. His last sensible vision was the face ofthe musician, the mouth absurdly hollow and pursed above the suddenlyremoved mouthpiece. Then an awning intercepted the politician's flight. He passed through this, penetrated a second and similar stretch ofcanvas shading the next window below, and lay placid on his ownfront steps with three ribs caved in and a variegated fracture of thecollar-bone. By the time the descent was ended the German musician hadtucked his brass under his arm and was hurrying, in panic, down thestreet, his ears still ringing with the concussion which had blown theangry householder from his own front window. He was intercepted by arunning policeman. 

"Where was the explosion?" demanded the officer. 

"Explosion? I hear a noise in the larch house on the corner, " repliedthe musician dully. 

The policeman grabbed his arm. "Come along back. You fer a witness! Comeon; you an' yer horn. "

"It iss not a horn, " explained the German patiently, "'it iss a B-flattrombone. "

Along with several million other readers, Average Jones followed theLinder "bomb outrage" through the scandalized head-lines of the localpress. The perpetrator, declared the excited journals, had been skilful. No clue was left. The explosion had taken care of that. The police (withthe characteristic stupidity of a corps of former truck-drivers andbartenders, decorated with brass buttons and shields and without furtherqualification dubbed "detectives") vacillated from theory to theory. Their putty-and-pasteboard fantasies did not long survive the HonorableWilliam Linder's return to consciousness and coherence. An "inside job, "they had said. The door was locked and bolted, Mr. Linder declared, and there was no possible place for an intruder to conceal himself. Clock-work, then. 

"How would any human being guess what time to set it for, " demanded thepolitician in disgust, "when I never know, myself, where I'm going to beat any given hour of any given day?"

"Then that Dutch horn-player threw the bomb, " propounded the head of the"Detective Bureau" ponderously. 

"Of course; tossed it right up, three stories, and kept playing hisinfernal trombone with the other hand all the time. You ought to becarrying a hod!"

Nevertheless, the police hung tenaciously to the theory that themusician was involved, chiefly because they had nothing else to hang to. The explosion had been very localized, the room not generally wrecked;but the chair which seemed to be the center of disturbance, and fromwhich the Honorable William Linder had risen just in time to save hislife, was blown to pieces, and a portion of the floor beneath it wasmuch shattered. The force of the explosion had been from above the floordownward; not up through the flooring. As to murderously inclined foes, Mr. Linder disclaimed knowledge of any. The notion that the trombonisthad given a signal he derided as an "Old Sleuth pipe-dream. "

As time went on and "clues" came to nothing, the police had no greaterconcern than quietly to forget, according to custom, a problem beyondtheir limited powers. With the release of the German musician, whowas found to be simple-minded to the verge of half-wittedness, publicinterest waned, and the case faded out of current print. 

Average Jones, who was much occupied with a pair of blackmailersoperating through faked photographs, about that time, had almostforgotten the Linder case, when, one day, a month after the explosion, Waldemar dropped in at the Astor Court offices. He found a changedJones; much thinner and "finer" than when, eight weeks before, he hadembarked on his new career, at the newspaper owner's instance. The youngman's color was less pronounced, and his eyes, though alert and eager, showed rings under them. 

"You have found the work interesting, I take it, " remarked the visitor. 

"Ra--ather, " drawled Average Jones appreciatively. 

"That was a good initial effort, running down the opium pill mail-orderenterprise. "

"It was simple enough as soon as I saw the catchword in the 'Wanted'line. "

"Anything is easy to a man who sees, " returned the older mansententiously. "The open eye of the open mind--that has more to do withreal detective work than all the deduction and induction and analysisever devised. "

"It is the detective part that interests me most in the game, but Ihaven't had much of it, yet. You haven't run across any promising adslately, have you?"

Waldemar's wide, florid brow wrinkled. 

"I haven't thought or dreamed of anything for a month but this infernalbomb explosion. "

"Oh, the Linder case. You're personally interested?"

"Politically. It makes Linder's nomination certain. Persecution. Attempted assassination. He becomes a near-martyr. I'm almost ready tobelieve that he planted a fake bomb himself. "

"And fell out of a third-story window to carry out the idea? That'spushing realism rather far, isn't it?"

Waldemar laughed. "There's the weakness. Unless we suppose that heunder-reckoned the charge of explosive. "

"They let the musician go, didn't they?"

"Yes. There was absolutely no proof against him, except that he was inthe street below. Besides, he seemed quite lacking mentally. "

"Mightn't that have been a sham?"

"Alienists, of good standing examined him. They reported him just ashade better than half-witted. He was like a one-ideaed child, hiswhole being comprised in his ability, and ambition to play his B-flattrombone. "

"Well, if I needed an accomplice, " said Average Jones thoughtfully, "Iwouldn't want any better one than a half-witted man. Did he play well?"

"Atrociously. And if you know what a soul-shattering blare exudes from aB-flat trombone--" Mr. Waldemar lifted expressive hands. 

Within Average Jones' overstocked mind something stirred at therepetition of the words "B-flat trombone. " Somewhere they had attractedhis notice in print; and somehow they were connected with Waldemar. Then from amidst the hundreds of advertisements with which, in the pastweeks, he had crowded his brain, one stood out clear. It voiced thedesire of an unknown gentleman on the near border of Harlem for theservices of a performer upon that semi-exotic instrument. One amongseveral, it had been cut from the columns of the Universal, on theevening which had launched him upon his new enterprise. Average Jonesmade two steps to a bookcase, took down a huge scrap-book from analphabetized row, and turned the leaves rapidly. 

"Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street, " said he, slamming the bookshut again. "Three Hundred East One Hundredth. You won't mind, willyou, " he said to Waldemar, "if I leave you unceremoniously?"

"Recalled a forgotten engagement?" asked the other, rising. 

"Yes. No. I mean I'm going to Harlem to hear some music. Thirty-fourth'sthe nearest station, isn't it? Thanks. So long. "

Waldemar rubbed his head thoughtfully as the door slammed behind thespeeding Ad-Visor. 

"Now, what kind of a tune is he on the track of, I wonder?" he mused. "I wish it hadn't struck him until I'd had time to go over the Linderbusiness with him. "

But while Waldemar rubbed his head in cogitatation and the HonorableWilliam Linder, in his Brooklyn headquarters, breathed charily, out ofrespect to his creaking rib, Average Jones was following fate northward. 

Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street is a house decrepit with adisease of the aged. Its windowed eyes are rheumy. It sags backward ongnarled joints. All its poor old bones creak when the winds shake it. ToAverage Jones' inquiring gaze on this summer day it opposed the secrecyof a senile indifference. He hesitated to pull at its bell-knob, lestby that act he should exert a disruptive force which might bring allthe frail structure rattling down in ruin. When, at length, he forcedhimself to the summons, the merest ghost of a tinkle complainedpetulantly from within against his violence. 

An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round andcomfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all. AverageJones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly locust shellswhich cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found within a plump andprosperous beetle. 

"Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this house, ma'am?" he inquired. 

"Long ago, " said she. 

"Am I too late, then?"

"Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never, " said theold lady with conviction, "seen such a frazzled lot of folks as B-flattrombone players. "

"The person who inserted the advertisement--?"

"Has left. A month since. "

"Could you tell where he went?"

"Left no address. "

"His name was Telford, wasn't it?" said Average Jones strategically. 

"Might be, " said the old lady, who had evidently formed no favorableimpression of her ex-lodger. "But he called himself Ransom. "

"He had a furnished room?"

"The whole third floor, furnished. "

"Is it let now?"

"Part of it. The rear. "

"I'll take the front room. "

"Without even looking at it?"

"Yes. "

"You're a queer young man. As to price?"

"Whatever you choose. "

"You're a very queer young man. Are you a B-flat trombone player?"

"I collect 'em, " said Average Jones. 

"References?" said the old lady abruptly and with suspicion. 

"All varieties, " replied her prospective lodger cheerfully. "I willbring 'em to-morrow with my grip. "

For five successive evenings thereafter Average Jones sat in the senilehouse, awaiting personal response to the following advertisement whichhe had inserted in the Universal:

 WANTED--B-flat trombonist. Must have had experience as street player. Apply between 8 and 10 p. M. R--, 300 East 100th Street. 

Between the ebb and flow of applicant musicians he read exhaustivelyupon the unallied subjects of trombones and high explosives, or talkedwith his landlady, who proved to be a sociable person, not disinclinedto discuss the departed guest. "Ransom, " his supplanter learned, hadcome light and gone light. Two dress suit cases had sufficed to bring inall his belongings. He went out but little, and then, she opined with adisgustful sniff, for purposes strictly alcoholic. Parcels came for himoccasionally. These were usually labeled "Glass. Handle with care. " Oh!there was one other thing. A huge, easy arm-chair from Carruthers andCompany, mighty luxurious for an eight-dollar lodger. 

"Did he take that with him?" asked Average Jones. 

"No. After he had been here a while he had a man come in and box it up. He must have sent it away, but I never saw it go. "

"Was this before or after the trombone players came?"

"Long after. It was after he had picked out his man and had him up herepracticing. "

"Did--er--you ever--er--see this musician?" drawled Average Jones in theslow tones of his peculiar excitement. 

"Bless you, yes! Talked with him. "

"What was he like?"

"He was a stupid old German. I always thought he was a sort of anatural. "

"Yes?" Average Jones peered out of the window. "Is this the man, comingup the street?"

"It surely is, " said the old lady. "Now, Mister Jones, if he commenceshis blaring and blatting and--". 

"There'll be no more music, ma'am, " promised the young man, laughing, asshe went out to answer the door-bell. 

The musician, ushered in, looked about him, an expression of bewilderedand childish surprise on his rabbit-like face. 

"I am Schlichting, " he murmured; "I come to play the B-flat trombone. "

"Glad to see you, Mr. Schlichting, " said Average Jones, leading the wayup-stairs. "Sit down. "

The visitor put his trombone down and shook his head with conviction. 

"It iss the same room, yes, " he observed. "But it iss not the same gent, no. "

"You expected to find Mr. Ransom here?"

"I don't know Mr. Ransom. I know only to play the B-flat trombone. "

"Mr. Ransom, the gentleman who employed you to play in the street inBrooklyn. "

Mr. Schlichting made large and expansive gestures. "It iss a pleasure toplay for such a gent, " he said warmly. "Two dollars a day. "

"You have played often in Kennard Street?"

"I don't know Kennard Street. I know only to play the B-flat trombone. "

"Kennard Street. In Brooklyn. Where the fat gentleman told you to stop, and fell out of the window. "

A look of fear overspread the worn and innocent face. 

"I don't go there no more. The po-lice, they take there. "

"But you had gone there before?"

"Not to play; no. "

"Not to play? Are you sure?"

The German considered painfully. "There vass no feet in the window, " heexplained, brightening. 

Upon that surprising phrase Average Jones pondered. "You were not toplay unless there were feet the window, " he said at length. "Was thatit?"

The musician assented. 

"It does look like a signal to show that Linder was in, " mused theinterrogator. "Do you know Linder?"

"I don't know nothing only to play the B-flat trombone, " repeated theother patiently. 

"Now, Schlichting, " said Average Jones, "here is a dollar. Every eveningyou must come here. Whether I am here or not, there will be a dollar foryou. Do you understand?"

By way of answer the German reached down and listed his instrument tohis lips. 

"No, not that, " forbade Average Jones. "Put it down. "

"Not to play my B-flat trombone?" asked the other, innocently hurt. "Theother gent he make play here always. "

"Did he?" drawled Average Jones. "And he--er--listened?"

"He listened from out there. " The musician pointed to the other room. 

"How long?"

"Different times, " was the placid reply. 

"But he was always in the other room. "

"Always. And I play Egypt. Like this. "

"No!" said Average Jones, as the other stretched out a hopeful hand. 

"He liked it--Egypt, " said the German wistfully. "He said: 'Bravo!Encore! Bis!' Sometimes nine, sometimes ten times over I play it, thechorus. "

"And then he sent you home?"

"Then sometimes something goes 'sping-g-g-g-g!' like that in the backroom. Then he comes out and I may go home. "

"Um--m, " muttered Average Jones discontentedly. "When did you begin toplay in the street?"

"After a long time. He take me away to Brooklyn and tell me, 'When yousee the feet iss in the window you play hard!"'

There was a long pause. Then Average Jones asked casually:

"Did you ever notice a big easy chair here?"

"I do not notice nothing. I play my B-flat trombone. "

And there his limitations were established. But the old lady hadsomething to add. 

"It's all true that he said, " she confirmed. "I could hear his racketin the front room and Mr. Ransom working in the back and then, after theold man was gone, Mr. Ransom sweeping up something by himself. "

"Sweeping? What--er--was he--er--sweeping?"

"Glass, I think. The girl used to find little slivers of it first in onepart of the room, then in another. I raised the rent for that and forthe racket. "

"The next thing, " said Average Jones, "is to find out where that bigeasy chair went from here. Can you help me there?"

The old lady shook her head. "All I can do is to tell you the near-bytruck men. "

Canvass of the local trucking industry brought to light the conveyor ofthat elegant article of furniture. It had gone, Average Jones learned, not to the mansion of the Honorable William Linder, as he had fondlyhoped, but to an obscure address not far from the Navy Yard in Brooklyn. To this address, having looked up and gathered in the B-flat trombonist, Average Jones led the way. The pair lurked in the neighborhood of theramshackle house watching the entrance, until toward evening, as thedoor opened to let out a tremulous wreck of a man, palsied with debauch, Schlichting observed:

"That iss him. He hass been drinking again once. "

Average Jones hurried the musician around the corner into concealment. "You have been here before to meet Mr. Ransom?"

"No. "

"Where did he meet you to pay you your wages?"

"On some corner, " said the other vaguely. 

"Then he took you to the big house and left you there, " urged Jones. 

"No; he left me on the street corner. 'When the feet iss in the window, 'he says, 'you play. '"

"It comes to this, " drawled Average Jones intently, looking the employeebetween his vacuous eyes. "Ransom shipped the chair to Plymouth Streetand from there to Linder's house. He figured out that Linder would putit in his study and do his sitting at the window in it. And you were toknow when he was there by seeing his feet in the window, and give thesignal when you saw him. It must have been a signal to somebody prettyfar off, or he wouldn't have chosen so loud an instrument as a B-flattrombone. "

"I can play the B-flat trombone louder as any man in the business, "asserted Schlichting with proud conviction. 

"But what gets me, " pursued Average Jones, "is the purpose of thesignal. Whom was it for?"

"I don't know nothing, " said the other complacently. "I only know toplay the B-flat trombone louder as any man in the world. "

Average Jones paid him a lump sum, dismissed him and returned to theCosmic Club, there to ponder the problem. What next? To accuse Ransom, the mysterious hirer of a B-flat trombone virtuosity, without sufficientproof upon which to base even a claim of cross-examination, would beto block his own game then and there, for Ransom could, and very likelywould, go away, leaving no trace. Who was Ransom, anyway? And whatrelation, if any, did he bear to Linder?

Absorbed in these considerations, he failed to notice that the club wasfilling up beyond its wont. A hand fell on his shoulder. 

"Hello, Average. Haven't seen you at a Saturday special night since youstarted your hobby. "

It was Bertram. "What's on?" Average Jones asked him, shaking hands. 

"Freak concert. Bellerding has trotted out part of his collection ofmediaeval musical instruments, and some professionals are going to playthem. Waldemar is at our table. Come and join us. "

Conversation at the round-table was general and lively that evening, and not until the port came on--the prideful club port, served only onspecial occasions and in wonderful, delicate glasses--did Average Jonesget an opportunity to speak to Waldemar aside. 

"I've been looking into that Linder matter a little. "

"Indeed. I've about given up hope. "

"You spoke of an old scandal in Linder's career. What was the husband'sname?"

"Arbuthnot, I believe. "

"Do you know what sort of looking man he was?"

"No. I could find out from Washington. "

"What was his business?"

"Government employment, I think. "

"In the--er--scientific line, perhaps?" drawled Jones. 

"Why, yes, I believe it was. "

"Um-m. Suppose, now, Linder should drop out of the combination. Whowould be the most likely nominee?"

"Marsden--the man I've been grooming for the place. A first-class, honorable, fearless man. "

"Well, it's only a chance; but if I can get one dark point cleared up--"

He paused as a curious, tingling note came from the platform where themusicians were tuning tip. 

"One of Bellerding's sweet dulcets, " observed Bertram. 

The Performer nearest them was running a slow bass scale on a sortof two-stringed horse-fiddle of a strange shape. Average Jones' stilluntouched glass, almost full of the precious port, trembled and sanga little tentative response. Up-up-up mounted the thrilling notes, increscendo force. 

"What a racking sort of tone, for all its sweetness!" said AverageJones. His delicate and fragile port glass evidently shared the opinion, for, without further warning, it split and shivered. 

"They used to show that experiment in the laboratory, " said Bertram. "You must have had just the accurate amount of liquid in the glass, Average. Move back, you lunatic, it's dripping all over you. "

 But Average Jones sat unheeding. The liquor dribbled down into hislap. He kept his fascinated gaze fixed on the shattered glass. Bertramdabbed him with a napkin. 

"Tha--a--anks, Bertram, " drawled the beneficiary of this attention. "Doesn't matter. Excuse me. Good night. "

Leaving his surprised companions, he took hat and cane and caught aThird Avenue car. By the time he had reached Brooklyn Bridge he had hiscampaign mapped out. It all depended upon the opening question. AverageJones decided to hit out and hit quick. 

At the house near the Navy Yard he learned that his man was out. So hesat upon the front steps while one of the highest-priced wines in NewYork dried into his knees. Shortly before eleven a shuffling figurepaused at the steps, feeling for a key. 

"Mr. Arbuthnot, otherwise Ransom?" said Average Jones blandly. 

The man's chin jerked back. His jaw dropped. 

"Would you like to hire another B-flat trombonist?" pursued the youngman. 

"Who are you?" gasped the other. "What do you want?"

"I want to know, " drawled Average Jones, "how--er-you planted the glassbulb--er--the sulphuric acid bulb, you know--in the chair that yousent--er--to the Honorable William Linder, so that--er--it wouldn't beshattered by anything but the middle C note of a B-flat trombone?"

The man sat down weakly and bowed his face in his hands. Presently helooked up. 

"I don't care, " he said. "Come inside. "

At the end of an hour's talk Arbuthnot, alias Ransom, agreed toeverything that Average Jones proposed. 

"Mind you, " he said, "I don't promise I won't kill him later. Butmeantime it'll be some satisfaction to put him down and out politically. You can find me here any time you want me. You say you'll see Linderto-morrow?"

"To-morrow, " said Average Jones. "'Look in the next day's papers for theresult. "

Setting his telephone receiver down the Honorable William Linder losthimself in conjecture. He had just given an appointment to his tried andtrue, but quite impersonal enemy, Mr. Horace Waldemar. 

"What can Waldemar want of me?" ran his thoughts. "And who is thisfriend, Jones, that he's bringing? Jones? Jones! Jones?!" He tried itin three different accents, without extracting any particular meaningtherefrom. "Nothing much in the political game, " he decided. 

It was with a mingling of gruffness and dignity that he greetedMr. Waldemar an hour later. The introduction to Average Jones heacknowledged with a curt nod. 

"Want a job for this young man, Waldemar?" he grunted. 

"Not at present, thank you, " returned the newspaper owner. "Mr. Joneshas a few arguments to present to you. "

"Arguments, " repeated the Honorable William Lender contemptuously. "Whatkind of arguments?"

"Political arguments. Mayoralty, to be specific. To be more specificstill, arguments showing why you should drop out of the race. "

"A pin-feather reformer, eh?"

The politician turned to meet Average Jones' steady gaze and mildlyinquiring smile. 

"Do you--er--know anything of submarine mines, Mr. Linder?" drawled thevisitor. 

"Huh?" returned the Honorable William Linder, startled. 

"Submarine mines, " explained the other. , "Mines in the sea, if you wishwords of one syllable. "

The lids of the Honorable Linder contracted. 

"You're in the wrong joint, " he said, "this ain't the Naval College. "

"Thank you. A submarine mine is a very ingenious affair. I've recentlybeen reading somewhat extensively on the subject. The main charge issome high explosive, usually of the dynamite type. Above it is a smalljar of sulphuric acid. Teeth, working on levers, surround this jar. Thelevers project outside the mine. When a ship strikes the mine, oneor more of the levers are pressed in. The teeth crush the jar. Thesulphuric acid drops upon the main charge and explodes it. Do you followme. "

"I'll follow you as far as the front door, " said the politicianbalefully. He rose. 

"If the charge were in a chair, in the cushion of an easy chair, we'llsay, on the third floor of a house in Brooklyn--"

The Honorable William Linder sat down again. He sat heavily. 

"--the problem would be somewhat different. Of course, it would be easyto arrange that the first person to sit down in the chair would, by hisown weight, blow himself up. But the first person might not be the rightperson, you know. Do you still follow me?"

The Honorable William Linder made a remark like a fish. 

"Now, we have, if you will forgive my professorial method, " continuedAverage Jones, "a chair sent to a gentleman of prominence from ananonymous source. In this chair is a charge of high explosive and aboveit a glass bulb containing sulphuric acid. The bulb, we will assume, isso safe-guarded as to resist any ordinary shock of moving. But when thisgentleman, sitting at ease in his chair, is noticed by a trombonist, placed for that purpose In the street, below--"

"The Dutch horn-player!" cried the politician. "Then it was him; andI'll--"

"Only an innocent tool, " interrupted Average Jones, in his turn. "Hehad no comprehension of what he was doing. He didn't understand that thevibration from his trombone on one particular note by the slide up thescale--as in the chorus of Egypt--would shiver that glass and set offthe charge. All that he knew was to play the B-flat trombone and takehis pay. "

"His pay?" The question leaped to the politician's lips. "Who paid him?"

"A man--named--er--Arbuthnot, " drawled Average Jones. 

Linder's eyes did not drop, but a film seemed to be drawn over them. 

"You once knew--er--a Mrs. Arbuthnot?"

The thick shoulders quivered a little. 

"Her husband--her widower--is in Brooklyn. Shall I push the argumentany further to convince you that you'd better drop out of the mayoraltyrace?"

Linder recovered himself a little. "What kind of a game are you ringingin on me?" he demanded. 

"Don't you think, " suggested Average Jones sweetly, "that considered asnews, this--"

Linder caught the word out of his mouth. "News!" he roared. "A fakestory ten years old, news? That ain't news! It's spite work. Even yourdirty paper, Waldemar, wouldn't rake that kind of muck up after tenyears. It'd be a boomerang. You'll have to put up a stronger line ofblackmail and bluff than that. "

"Blackmail is perhaps the correct word technically, " admitted thenewspaper owner, "but bluff--there you go wrong. You've forgotten onething; that Arbuthnot's arrest and confession would make the wholestory news. We stand ready to arrest Arbuthnot, and he stands ready toconfess. "

There was a long, tense minute of silence. Then--

"What do you want?" The straight-to-the-point question was an admissionof defeat. 

"Your announcement of withdrawal. I'd rather print that than theArbuthnot story. "

There was a long silence. Finally the Honorable Linder dropped his handon the table. "You win, " he declared curtly. "But you'll give me thebenefit, in the announcement, of bad health caused by the shock of theexplosion, to explain my quitting, Waldemar?"

"It will certainly make it more plausible, " assented the newspaper ownerwith a smile. 

Linder turned on Average Jones. 

"Did you dope this out, young fellow?" he demanded. 

"Yes. "

"Well, you've put me in the Down-and-Out-Club, all right. And I'm justcurious enough to want to know how you did it. "

"By abstaining, " returned Average Jones cryptically, "from the best winethat ever came out of the Cosmic Club cellar. "

CHAPTER II. RED DOT

From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon thewhirl of Fifth Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun. 

In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed ofby his trained assistants. To the advertising expert's offices had comethat day but three cases difficult enough to be referred to the Ad-Visorhimself. Two were rather intricate financial lures which Average Joneswas able to dispose of by a mere "Don't. " The third was a Spiritualistannouncement behind which lurked a shrewd plot to entrap a senilemillionaire into a marriage with the medium. These having been settled, the expert was free to muse upon a paragraph which had appeared in allthe important New York morning papers of the day before. 

 REWARD-$1, 000 reward for information as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog "Rags" killed in office of Malcolm Dorr, Stengel Building, Union Square, March 29. 

"That's too much money for a dog, " decided Average Jones. "Particularlyone that hasn't any bench record. I'll just have a glance into thething. "

Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossingover to Union Square, entered the gloomy old building which is the solesurvival of the days when the Stengel estate foresaw the upward trendof business toward Fourteenth Street. Stepping from the elevator at theseventh floor, he paused underneath this sign:

 MALCOLM DORR ANALYTICAL AND CONSULTING CHEMIST Hours 10 to 4

Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes, sitting at a desk. 

"Mr. Dorr?" he asked. 

"Yes, " replied the fat young man nervously, "but if you are a reporter, I must--"

"I am not, " interrupted the other. "I am an expert on advertising, and Iwant that one thousand dollars reward. "

The chemist pushed his chair back and rubbed his forehead. 

"You mean you have--have found out something?"

"Not yet. But I intend to. "

Dorr stared at him in silence. 

"You are very fond of dogs, Mr. Dorr?"

"Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly, " said the other mechanically. 

Average Jones shot a sudden glance of surprise at him, then lookeddreamily at his own finger-nails. 

"I can sympathize with you. I have exhibited for some years. Your dogwas perhaps a green ribboner?"

"Er--oh--yes; I believe so. "

"Ah! Several of mine have been. One in particular, took medal aftermedal; a beautiful glossy brown bulldog, with long silky ears, and theslender splayed-out legs that are so highly prized but so seldom seennowadays. His tail, too, had the truly Willoughby curve, from his dam, who was a famous courser. "

Mr. Dorr looked puzzled. "I didn't know they used that kind of dog forcoursing, " he said vaguely. 

Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the creasealong the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone, when next hespoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of his intimates wouldhave recognized in it, however, the characteristic evidence that hismind was ranging swift and far to a conclusion. 

"Mr. Dorr, " he drawled, "who--er--owned your--er--dog?"

"Why, I--I did, " said the startled chemist. 

"Who gave him to you?"

"A friend. "

"Quite so. Was it that--er--friend who--er--offered the reward?"

"What makes you think that?"

"This, to be frank. A man who doesn't know a bulldog from a bed-springisn't likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge the death ofone. And the minute you answered my question as to whether you caredfor dogs, I knew you didn't. When you fell for a green ribbon, anda splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the brindle bull class(there's no such class, by the way), I knew you were bluffing. Mr. Dorr, who--er--has been--er--threatening your life?"

The chemist swung around in his chair. 

"What do you know?" he demanded. 

"Nothing. I'm guessing. It's a fair guess that a reasonably valuablebrindle bull isn't presented to a man who cares nothing for dogs withoutsome reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is it in your case?"

"Yes, it is, " replied the other, after some hesitation. 

"And now the protection is gone. Don't you think you'd better let me inon this?"

"Let me speak to my--my legal adviser first. "

He called up a down-town number on the telephone and asked to beconnected with Judge Elverson. "I may have to ask you to leave theoffice for a moment, " he said to his caller. 

"Very well. But if that is United States District Attorney RogerElverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones who wants to know, andremind him of the missing letter opium advertisement. "

Almost immediately Average Jones was called back from the hallway, whither he had gone. 

"Elverson says to tell you the whole thing, " said the chemist, "inconfidence, of course. "

"Understood. Now, who is it that wants to get rid of you?"

"The Paragon Pressed Meat Company. "

Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimalspeck from his left cuff. "Ah, " he commented, "the Canned Meat Trust. What have you been doing to them?"

"Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certainby-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I foundthey were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and then sellingthe stuff. "

"Would the meat so treated be poisonous?"

"Well--dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning themthat they must stop. "

"Did they reply?"

"A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if Ithought my invention was worth more than I'd received, his principals, would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortly after I heard thatthe Federal authorities were going after the Trust, so I called on Mr. Elverson. "

"Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fuller ofleaks than a sieve. "

"That's probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of cyanidefumes a fortnight later, " remarked Dorr dryly. "I got to the outer airalive, but not much more. A week later there was an explosion in thelaboratory. I didn't happen to be there at the time. The odd feature ofthe explosion was that I hadn't any explosive drugs in the place. "

"Where is this laboratory?"

"Over in Flatbush, where I live--or did live. Within a month after that, a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneaking up behindme as I was going home late one night. The man shot, too, but missed me. I reported it to the police, and they told me to be sure and not let thenewspapers know. Then they forgot it. "

Average Jones laughed. "Of course they did. Some day New York will findout that 'the finest police force in the world' is the biggest shamoutside the dime museum. Except in the case of crimes by the regular, advertised criminals, they're as helpless as babies. Didn't you take anyother precautions?"

"Oh, yes. I reported the attempt to Judge Elverson. He sent a secretservice man over to live with me. Then I got a commission out in Denver. When I came back, about a month ago, Judge Elverson gave me the twodogs. "

"Two?"

"Yes. Rags and Tatters. "

"Where's Tatters?"

"Dead. By the same road as Rags. "

"Killed at your place in Flatbush?"

"No. Right here in this room. "

Average Jones became suddenly very much worried about the second buttonof his coat. Having satisfied himself of its stability, he drawled, "Er--both of--er--them?"

"Yes. Ten days apart. "

"Where were you?"

"On the spot. That is, I was here when Tatters got his death. I had goneto the wash-room at the farther end of the hall when Rags was poisoned. "

"Why do you say poisoned?"

"What else could it have been? There was no wound on either of thedogs. "

"Was there evidence of poison?"

"Pathological only. In Tatters case it was very marked. He was dozing ina corner near the radiator when I heard him yelp and saw him snapping athis belly. He ran across the room, lay down and began licking himself. Within fifteen minutes he began to whine. Then he stiffened out in asort of a spasm. It was like strychnine poisoning. Before could get aveterinary here he was dead. "

"Did you make any examination?"

"I analyzed the contents of his stomach, but did not obtain positiveresults. "

"What about the other dog?"

"Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come over fromFlatbush and Razs was nosing around in the corner--"

"Was it the same corner where Tatters was attacked?"

"Yes, near the radiator. He seemed to be interested in something therewhen I left the room. I was gone not more than two minutes. "

"Lock the door after you?"

"It has a special spring lock which I had put on it. "

Average Jones crossed over and looked at the contrivance. Then hisglance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the new fastening. "You didn't use that larger lock?"

"No. I haven't for months. The key is lost, I think. "

Retracing his steps the investigator sighted the hole from the radiator, and shook his head. 

"It's not in range, " he said. "Go on. "

"As I reached the door on my return, I heard Rags yelp. You may believeI got to him quickly. He was pawing wildly at his nose. I called upthe nearest veterinary. Within ten minutes the convulsions came on. Theveterinary was here when Rags died, which was within fifteen minutes ofthe first spasm. He didn't believe it was strychnine. Said the attackswere different. Whatever it was, I couldn't find any trace of it in thestomach. The veterinary took the body away and made a complete autopsy. "

"Did he discover anything?"

"Yes. The blood was coagulated and on the upper lip he found a circleof small pustules. He agreed that both dogs probably swallowed somethingthat was left in my office, though I don't see how it could have gotthere. "

"That won't do, " returned Average Jones positively. "A dog doesn't cryout when he swallows poison, unless it's some corrosive. "

"It was no corrosive. I examined the mouth. "

"What about the radiator?" asked Average Jones, getting down on hisknees beside that antiquated contrivance. "It seems to have been thecenter of disturbance. "

"If you're thinking of fumes, " replied the chemist. "I tested for that. It isn't possible. "

"No; I suppose not. And yet, there's the curious feature that the fatalinfluence seems to have emanated from the corner which is the mostremote from both windows and door. Are your windows left open at night?"

"The windows, sometimes. The transom is kept double-bolted. "

"Do they face any other windows near by?"

"You can see for yourself that they don't. "

"There's no fire-escape and it's too far up for anything to come in fromthe street. " Average examined the walls with attention and returned tothe big keyhole, through which he peeped. 

"Do you ever chew gum?" he asked suddenly. 

The Chemist stared at him. "It isn't a habit of mine to, " he said. 

"But you wouldn't have any objection to my sending for some, insatisfaction of a sudden irresistible craving?"

"Any particular brand? I'll phone the corner drug store. "

"Any sort will suit, thank you. "

When the gum arrived, Average Jones, after politely offering some tohis host, chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled out toan extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across the unusedkeyhole, which it completely though thinly, veiled. 

"Now, what's that for?" inquired the chemist, eying the improvisedclosure with some contempt. 

"Don't know, exactly, yet, " replied the deviser, cheerfully. "But whenqueer and fatal things happen in a room and there's only one opening, it's just as well to keep your eye on that, no matter how small it is. Better still, perhaps, if you'd shift your office. "

The fat young chemist pushed his hair back, looked out of the window, and then turned to Average Jones. The rather flabby lines of his facehad abruptly hardened over the firm contour below. 

"No. I'm hanged if I will, " he said simply. 

An amiable grin overspread Average Jones' face. 

"You've got more nerve than prudence, " he observed. "But I don't say youaren't right. Since you're going to stick to the ship, keep your eye onthat gum. If it lets go its hold, wire me. "

"All right, " agreed young Mr. Dorr. "Whatever your little game is, I'llplay it. Give me your address in case you leave town. "

"As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on specialorder to dig through the files of the local and neighboring citynewspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If ourunknown has devised a new method of canicide, it's quite possible he mayhave worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can't be wise, be careful. "

Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular pastimein and around New York, judging from the succession of news items whichpoured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Several days were exhaustedby false clues. Then one morning there arrived, among other data, anarticle from the Bridgeport Morning Delineator which caused the Ad-Visorto sit up with a jerk. It detailed the poisoning of several dogsunder peculiar circumstances. Three hours later he was in the bustlingConnecticut city. There he took carriage for the house of Mr. CurtisFleming, whose valuable Great Dane dog had been the last victim. 

Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman all grownto a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of irasciblegleam, and a most pointed manner of speech. 

"Who are you?" he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was ushered in. 

Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to deal withit. 

"Jones!" he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the monosyllablefairly exploded in the other's face. 

"Well, well, well, " said the elder man, his aspect suddenly mollified. "Don't bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what do you want ofme?"

"Ordinary variety of Jones. I want to now about your dog. "

"Reporter?"

"No. "

"Glad of it. They're no good. Had my reporters on this case. Foundnothing. "

"Your reporters?"

"I own the Bridgeport Delineator. "

"What about the dog?"

"Good boy!" approved the old martinet. "Sticks to his point. Dog wasout walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant lot onnext square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber. Dog nosedaround. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm. Died in fifteenminutes. And hang me, sir, " cried the old man, bringing his fist downon Average Jones' knee, "if I see how the poison got him, for he wasmuzzled to the snout, sir!"

"Muzzled? Then--er--why do, you--er--suggest poison?" drawled the youngman. 

"Fourth dog to go the same way in the last week. "

"All in this locality?"

"Yes, all on Golden Hill. "

"Any suspicions?"

"Suspicions? Certainly, young man, certainly. Look at this. "

Average Jones took the smutted newspaper proof which his host extended, and read:

"WARNING-Residents of the Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestlycautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles oroutbuildings until further notice. Danger!"

"When was this published?"

"Wasn't published. Delineator refused it. Thought it was a case ofinsanity. "

"Who offered it?"

"Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next corner withold-fashioned conservatory. "

"How long ago?"

"About a week. "

"All the dogs you speak of died since then?"

"Yes. "

"Did he give any explanation of the advertisement?"

"No. Acted half-crazy when he brought it to the office, the businessmanager said. Wouldn't sign his name to the thing. Wouldn't say anythingabout it. Begged the manager to let him have the weather reports inadvance, every day. The manager put the advertisement in type, decidednot to it, and returned the money. "

"'Weather reports, eh?" Average Jones mused a moment. "How long was thead to run?"

"Until the first hard frost. "

"Has there--er--been a--er--frost since?" drawled Average Jones. 

"No. "

"Who is this Moseley?"

"Don't know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, Ibelieve. Very exclusive, " added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin. "Neversociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though. Insane, too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in them. "

"How's that?" inquired Average Jones. 

The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "It gotenclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The handwritingon the envelope is his own. Look inside. "

A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in NewYork on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was a smallslip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubber stamp. There was nowriting of any kind. Near the center of the sheet were three dots. Theyseemed to have been made with red ink. 

"You're sure the address is in Professor Moseley's writing?"

"I'd swear to it. "

"It doesn't follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I should judgethat it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not to have anyspecimen of his handwriting lying about for identification. 

"Perhaps. What's your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious youngfriend?"

"Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours. "

"Well, I've got my man. He confessed. "

"Confessed?" echoed Average Jones. 

"Practically. I've kept the point of the story to the last. ProfessorMoseley committed suicide this morning. "

If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on his visitor, his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet slowly, walkedover to the window, returned, picked up the strange proof with itsmessage of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the window, andstared out into the day. 

"Cut his throat about nine o'clock this morning, " pursued the other. "Dead when they found him. "

"Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?" said Average Jones curtly. 

"Told to hold my tongue in my own house by uninvited stripling, " cackledthe other. "You' re a singular young man. Have it your own way. "

After a five minutes' silence the visitor turned from the window andspoke. "There has been a deadly danger loose about here for whichProfessor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself. Why?"

"Because I was on his trail, " declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Afraid toface me. "

"Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this thing, whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley to suicide. "

"Prove it. "

"Give me a morning paper. "

His host handed him the current issue of the Delineator. 

Average Jones studied the local page. 

"Where's Galvin's Alley?" he asked presently. 

"Two short blocks from here. "

"In the Golden Hill section?"

"Yes. "

"Read that. "

Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to a paragraphtelling of the death of an Italian child living in Galvin's Alley. Cause, convulsions. 

"By Jove!" said he, somewhat awed. "You can reason, young man. "

"I've got to, reason a lot further, if I'm to get anywhere in thisaffair, " said Average Jones with conviction. "Do you care, to come toGalvin's Alley with me?"

Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by whitecrepe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English. They saidthat four-year-old Pietro had been playing around a woodpile theafternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home, staggering. Thedoctor could do nothing. The little one passed from spasm into spasm, and died in an hour. 

"Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?" askedAverage Jones. 

The dead child's father looked surprised. That, he said, was what thestrange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer, bentlittle gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who was kind, andwept with them and gave them money to bury the "bambino. "

"Moseley, by the Lord Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. "But whatwas the death-agent?"

Average Jones shook his head. "Too early to do more than guess. Will youtake me to Professor Moseley's place?"

The old house stood four-square, with a patched-up conservatory on onewing. In the front room they found the recluse's body decently disposed, with an undertaker's assistant in charge. From the greenhouse came asubdued hissing. 

"What's that?" asked Jones. 

"Fumigating the conservatory. There was a note found near the bodyinsisting on its being done. 'For safety, ' it said, so I ordered itlooked to. "

"You're in charge, then?"

"It's my house. And there are no relatives so far as I know. Come andlook at his papers. You won't find much. "

In the old-fashioned desk was a heap of undecipherable matter, interspersed with dates, apparently bearing upon scientific experiments;a package of letters from the Denny Research Laboratories of St. Louis, mentioning enclosure of checks; and three self-addressed envelopesbearing New York postmarks, of dates respectively, March 12, March 14and March 20. Each contained a date-stamped sheet of paper, similar tothat which Mr. Curtis Fleming had shown to Average Jones. The one ofearliest date bore two red dots; the second, three red dots, and thethird, two. All the envelopes were endorsed in Professor Moseley'shandwriting; the first with the one word "Filled. " The second writingwas "Held for warmer weather. " The last was inscribed "One in poorcondition. "

Of these Average Jones made careful note, as well as of the laboratoryaddress. By this time the hissing of the fumigating apparatus hadceased. The two men went to the conservatory and gazed in upon a ruin oflimp leaves and flaccid petals, killed by the powerful gases. Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, the investigator stooped and liftedfrom the floor a marvel of ermine body and pale green wings. The moth, spreading nearly a foot, was quite dead. 

"Here's the mate, sir, " said the fumigating expert, handing him anotherspecimen, a trifle smaller. "The place was crowded with all kinds ofpretty ones. All gone where the good bugs go now. "

Average Jones took the pair of moths to the desk, measured them and laidthem carefully away in a drawer. 

"The rest must wait, " he said. "I have to send a telegram. "

With the interested Mr. Curtis Fleming in attendance, he went to thetelegraph office, where he wrote out a dispatch. 

"Mr. A. V. R. Jones?" said the operator. "There's a message here foryou. "

Average Jones took the leaflet and read:

"Found gum on floor this morning when I arrived. MALCOLM DORR. "

Then he recalled his own blank, tore it up, and substituted thefollowing, which he ordered "rushed":

MALCOLM DORR, STENGEL BUILDING, NEW YORY CITY:

"Leave office immediately. Do not return until it has been fumigatedthoroughly. Imperative. A. V. R. JONES. "

"And now, " said Average Jones to Mr. Fleming, "I'm going back to NewYork. If any collectors come chasing to you for luna moths, don't dealwith them. Refer them to me, please. Here is my card. "

"Your orders shall be obeyed, " said the older man, his beady eyestwinkling. "But why, in the name of all that's unheard of, shouldcollectors come bothering me about luna moths?"

"Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in the nextnumber of the National Science Weekly, and in coming issues of the NewYork Evening Register. "

He handed out a rough draft of this advertisement:

 "For Sale--Two largest known specimens of Tropaea luna, unmounted; respectively 10 and 11 inches spread. Also various other specimens from collection of late Gerald Moseley, of Conn. Write for particulars. Jones, Room 222 Astor Court Temple, New York. "

"What about further danger here?" inquired Mr. Fleming, as Average Jonesbade him good-by. "Would we better run that warning of poor Moseley's, after all?"

For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late season whirl of snowenveloped the streets. 

"I see, " said the old man. "The frost. Well Mr. Mysterious Jones, Idon't know what you're up to, but you've given me an interesting day. Let me know what comes of it. "

On the train back to New York, Average Jones Wrote two letters. Onewas to the Denny Research Laboratories in St. Louis, the other to theDepartment of Agriculture at Washington. On the following morning hewent to Dorr's office. That young chemist was in a recalcitrant frame ofmind. 

"I've done about ten dollars' worth of fumigating and a hundred dollars'worth of damage, " he said, "and now, I'd like to have a Missouri sign. In other words, I want to be shown. What did some skunk want to kill mydogs for?"

"He didn't. "

"But they're dead, aren't they?"

"Accident. "

"What kind of an accident?"

"The kind in which the innocent bystander gets the worst of it. You'rethe one it was meant for. "

"Me?"

"Certainly. You'd probably have got it if the dog hadn't. "

The speaker examined the keyhole, then walked over to the radiatorand looked over, under and through it minutely. "Nothing there, "he observed; and, after extending his examination to the windows, book-shelf and desk, added:

"I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safest sideis the best. "

"What is it? Some new game in projective germs?" demanded the chemist. 

"Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs, " returnedAverage Jones. "Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I'll havesome mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a plumbersolder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of dynamite can getthrough it. "

Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer of lunamoths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came inby, every mail, responding variously with fervor, suspicion, yearningeagerness, and bitter skepticism to Average Jones' advertisement. Allof these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And eachday he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with thedirectory of occupants of the Stengel Building. Less than a week afterthe luna moth advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into MalcolmDorr's office with a twinkle in his eye. 

"Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?" he asked the chemist. 

"Never heard of him. "

"Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the restof the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater Apartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building. Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he is one of theconfidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat Company. Do you see?"

"I begin, " replied young Mr. Dorr. 

"It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor above, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting work lateat night when the elevator had stopped running and--let us say--peepthrough the keyhole. "

Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean linesof his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh. 

"I don't know what you're going to do to Mr. Ross, " he said, "but I wantto see him first. "

"I'm not going to do anything to him, " returned Average Jones, "because, in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away, having noted, doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis of the nerves. It'sstrange how nervous your scientific murderer is. Anyway, Ross is only anagent. I'm going to aim higher. "

"As how?"

"Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare a peacefulbut murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his senses; second, I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas; and third, I expectto raise the street selling price of the evening 'yellow' journals, temporarily, about one thousand per cent. What's the answer? The answeris 'Buy to-night's papers. '"

New York, that afternoon, saw something new in advertising. That itreally was advertising was shown by the "Adv. " sign, large and plain, inboth the papers which carried it. The favored journals were the onlytwo which indulged in "fudge" editions; that is, editions with glaringred-typed inserts of "special" news. On the front page of each, stretching narrowly across three columns, was a device showing a tinymapped outline in black marked Bridgeport, Conn. , and a large skeletondraft of Manhattan Island showing the principal streets. From theConnecticut city downward ran a line of dots in red. The dots enteredNew York from the north, passed down Fourth Avenue to the south sideof Union Square, turned west and terminated. Beneath this map was thelegend, also in red:

WATCH THE LINE ADVANCE IN LATER EDITIONS

It was the first time in the records of journalism that the "fudge"device had been used in advertising. 

Great was the rejoicing of the "newsies" when public curiosity made a"run" upon these papers. Greater it grew when the "afternoon edition"appeared, and with their keen business instinct, the urchins saw thatthey could run the price upward, which they promptly did, in some caseseven to a nickel. This edition carried the same "fudge" advertisement, but now the red dots crossed over to Fifth Avenue and turned northwardas far as Twenty-third Street. The inscription was:

UPWARD AND ONWARD SEE NEXT EXTRA

For the "Night Extra" people paid five, ten, even fifteen cents. Rumorran wild. Other papers, even, look the matter up as news, and commentedupon the meaning of the extraordinary advertisement. This time, thered-dotted line went as far up Fifth Ave title as Fiftieth Street. Andthe legend was ominous:

WHEN I TURN, I STRIKE

That was all that evening. The dotted line did not turn. 

Keen as newspaper conjecture is, it failed to connect the "red-linemaps, " with the fame of which the city was raging, with an item ofshipping news printed in the evening papers of the following day:

 CLEARED--For South American Ports, steam yacht Electra, New York. Owner John M. Colwell. 

And not until the following morning did the papers announce thatPresident Colwell, of the Canned Meat Trust, having been ordered by hisphysician on a long sea voyage to refurbish his depleted nerves, afterclosing his house on West Fifty-first Street, had sailed in his ownyacht. The same issue carried a few lines about the "freak ads. " whichhad so sensationally blazed and so suddenly waned from the "yellows. "The opinion was offered that they represented the exploitation ofsome new brand of whisky which would announce itself later. But thatannouncement never came, and President Colwell sailed to far seas, andMr. Curtis Fleming came to New York, keen for explanations, for he, too, had seen the "fudge" and marveled. Hence, Average Jones had him, together with young Mr. Dorr, at a private room luncheon at the CosmicClub, where he offered an explanation and elucidation. 

"The whole affair, " he said, "was a problem in the connecting up ofloose ends. At the New York terminus we had two deaths in the office ofa man with powerful and subtle enemies, that office being practicallysealed against intrusion except for a very large keyhole. Some deadlything is introduced through that keyhole; so much is practically provenby the breaking out of the chewing gum with which I coated it. Probablythe scheme was carried out in the evening when the building was nearlydeserted. The killing influence reaches a corner far out of the directline of the keyhole. Being near the radiator, that corner represents theattraction of warmth. Therefore, the invading force was some sentientcreature. "

Dorr shuddered. "Some kind of venomous snake, " he surmised. 

"Not a bad guess. But a snake, however small, would have been instantlynoticed by the dogs. Now, let's look at the Bridgeport end. Here, again, we have a deadly influence loosed; this time by accident. A scientificexperimentalist is the innocent cause of the disaster. Here, too, theperil is somewhat dependent upon warmth, since we know, from ProfessorMoseley's agonized eagerness for a frost, that cold weather would haveput an end to it. The cold weather fails to come. Dogs are killed. Finally a child falls victim, and on that child is found a circularmark, similar to the mark on Mr. Dorr's dog's lip. You see the strikingpoints of analogy?"

"Do you mean us to believe poor old Moseley a cold-blooded murderer?"demanded Mr. Curtis Fleming. 

"Far from it. At worst an unhappy victim of his own carelessness inloosing a peril upon his neighborhood. You're forgetting a connectinglink; the secretive red-dot communications from New York City addressedby Moseley to himself on behalf of some customer who ordered simply bya code of ink dots. He was the man I had to find. The giant luna mothshelped to do it. "

"I don't see where they come in at all, " declared Dorr bluntly. "A motha foot wide couldn't crawl through a keyhole. "

"No; nor do any damage if it did. The luna is as harmless as itis lovely. In this case the moths weren't active agents. They wereimportant only as clues--and bait. Their enormous size showed ProfessorMoseley's line of work; the selective breeding of certain forms oflife to two or three times the normal proportions. Very well; I hadto ascertain some creature which, if magnified several times, would bedeadly, and which would still be capable of entering a large keyhole. Having determined that--"

"You found what it was?" cried Dorr. 

"One moment. Having determined that, I had still to get in touch withProfessor Moseley's mysterious New York correspondent. I figured that hemust be interested in Professor Moseley's particular branch of researchor he never could have devised his murderous scheme. So I constructedthe luna moth advertisement to draw him, and when I got a reply from Mr. Ross, who is a fellow-tenant of Mr. Dorr's, the chain was complete. Now, you see where the luna moths were useful. If I had advertised, insteadof them, the lathrodectus, he might have suspected and refrained fromanswering. "

"What's the lathrodectus?" demanded both the hearers at once. 

For answer Average Jones took a letter from his pocket and read:

BUREAU OF ENTOMOLOGY, U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE, WASHINGTON, D. C. , April 7

MR. A. V. R. JONES, Astor Court Temple, New York City. 

DEAR Sir, Replying to your letter of inquiry, the only insect answering yourspecifications is a small spider Lathrodectus mactans, sometimespopularly called the Red Dot, from a bright red mark upon the back. Rarecases are known where death has been caused by the bite of this insect. Fortunately its fangs are so weak that they can penetrate only verytender skin, otherwise death from its bite would be more common, as thevenom, drop for drop, is perhaps the most virulent known to science. 

This Bureau knows nothing of any experiments in breeding theLathrodectus for size. Your surmise that specimens of two or three timesthe normal size would be dangerous to life is undoubtedly correct, andselected breeding to that end should be conducted only under adequatescientific safeguards. A Lathrodectus mactans with fangs large enough topenetrate the skin of the hand, and a double or triple supply of venom, would be, perhaps, more deadly than a cobra. 

The symptoms of poisoning by this species are spasms, similar to thoseof trismus, and agonizing general pains. There are no local symptoms, except, in some cases, a circle of small pustules about the bitten spot. 

Commercially, the Lathrodectus has value, in that the poison is used incertain affections of the heart. For details, I would refer you to theDenny Laboratories of St. Louis, Mo. , which are purchasers of the venom. 

The species is very susceptible to cold, and would hardly survive asevere frost. It frequents woodpiles and outhouses. Yours truly, L. O. HOWARD, Chief of Bureau. 

"Then Ross was sneaking down here at night and putting the spiders whichhe had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in the hope thatsooner or later one of them would get me, " said Dorr. 

"A very reasonable expectation, too. Vide, the dogs, " returned AverageJones. 

"And now, " said Mr. Curtis Fleming, "will some one kindly explain to mewhat this Ross fiend had against our friend, Mr. Dorr?"

"Nothing, " replied Average Jones. 

"Nothing? Was he coursing with spiders merely for sport?"

"Oh, no. You see Mr. Dorr was interfering with the machinery of one ofour ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust. He possessed informationwhich would have indicted all the officials. Therefore it wasdesirable--even essential--that he should be removed from the pathway ofprogress. "

"Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!" snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Trustsmay be unprincipled, but they don't commit individual crimes. "

"Don't they?" returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his ownboot-tip. "Did you ever hear of Mr. Adel Meyer's little corset steelwhich he invented to stick in the customs scales and rob the governmentfor the profit of his Syrup Trust? Or of the individual oil refinerieswhich mysteriously disappeared in fire and smoke at a time when theybecame annoying to the Combination Oil Trust? Or of the TractionTrust's two plots to murder Prosecutor Henry in San Francisco? I'm justmentioning a few cases from memory. Why, when a criminal trust facesonly loss it will commit forgery, theft or arson. When it faces jail, itwill commit murder just as determinedly. Self-defense, you know. As forthe case of Mr. Dorr--" and he proceeded to detail the various attemptson the young chemist's life. 

"But why so roundabout a method?" asked Dorr skeptically. 

"Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you throughagents. That didn't work. It was up to the Trust to put one of its ownconfidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He devised ameans that looked to be pretty safe and, in the long run, sure. "

"And would have been but for your skill, young Jones, " declared Mr. Curtis Fleming, with emphasis. 

"Don't forget the fortunate coincidences, " replied Average Jonesmodestly. "They're about half of it. In fact, detective work, for allthat is said on the other side, is mostly the ability to recognize andconnect coincidences. The coincidence of the escape of the Red Dots fromProfessor Moseley's breeding cages; the coincidence of the death of thedogs on Golden Hill, followed by the death of the child; the coincidenceof poor Moseley's having left the red dot letters on the desk insteadof destroying them; the coincidence of Dorr's dogs being bitten, when itmight easily have been himself had he gone to turn on the radiator anddisturbed the savage little spider--"'

"And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in theadvertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more to scareoff further attempts than anything else, " put in Dorr. "What became ofthe spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?"

"Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. The othersmay well have died of cold. At night when the heat was off and thewindows open. The cleaning woman wouldn't have been likely to noticethem when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later, if Ross hadcontinued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one of them would havebitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust would have gone on its wayrejoicing. "

"Well, you've certainly saved my life, " declared Dorr, "and it's a caseof sheer force of reasoning. "

Average Jones shook his head. "You might give some of the credit toProvidence, " he said. "Just one little event would have meant thesaving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the death ofyourself, instead of the other way around. "

"And that event?" asked Mr. Curtis Fleming. 

"Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport, " replied Average Jones. 

CHAPTER III. OPEN TRAIL

"Not good enough, " said Average Jones, laying aside a sheet of paperupon which was pasted a newspaper clipping. "We can't afford luxuries, Simpson. "

The confidential clerk rubbed his high, pale forehead indeterminately. "But five thousand dollars, Mr. Jones, " he protested. 

"Would pay a year's office rent, you're thinking. True. Nevertheless Ican't see the missing Mr. Hoff as a sound professional proposition. "

"So you think it would be impossible to find him?"

"Now, why should I think any such absurd thing? I think, if you choose, that he wouldn't be worth the amount, when found, to lose. "

"The ad says different, Sir. " Simpson raised the paper and read:

 "FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS--The aforesaid sum will be paid without question to anyone furnishing information which leads to the discovery of Roderick Hoff, twenty-four years old, who left his home in Toledo, 0. , on April 12. Communicate with Dr. Conrad Hoff, Toledo. 

"Surely Doctor Hoff is good for the amount. "

"Oh, he's good for millions, thanks to his much advertised quack'Catarrh-Killer. ' The point is, from what I can discover, Mr. RoderickHoff isn't worth retrieving at any price above one dime. "

"Was the information about him that you wished, in the telegram?" askedthe confidential clerk. 

"Yes; all I wanted. Thanks for looking after it. Have the Toledoreporter, who sent it, forward his bill. And if the old inventor who'sbeen haunted by disembodied voices comes again, bring him to me. "

"Yes, sir, " said Simpson, going out. 

Left to himself, Average Jones again ran over the dispatches, conveyingthe information as to the lost Toledo youth. They had given a fairlycomplete sketch of young Hoff's life and character. At twenty-four, it appeared, Roderick Hoff had achieved a career. Emerging, by thepropulsive method, from college, in the first term of his freshman year, he had taken a post-graduate course in the cigarette ward of apolite retreat for nervous wrecks. He had subsequently endured twobreach-of-promise suits, had broken the state automobile record fornumber of speed violation arrests, had been buncoed, badgered, paneled, blackmailed and short-carded out of sums varying between one hundredand ten thousand dollars; and now, in the year of grace, 19--, was thehorror of the pulpit and the delight of the press of the city which hecalled his home. For the rest, he was a large, mild, good-humored, pulpyindividual, with a fixed delusion that the human organism can absorb aquart of alcoholic miscellany per day and be none the worse for it. Themajor premise of his proposition was perfectly correct. He proved itdaily. The minor premise was an error. Bets were even in the Toledoclubs as to whether delirium tremens or paresis would win the eventaround young Mr. Hoff's kite-shaped race-track of a brain. 

With his tastes the income of twenty-five thousand dollars perannum which his father allowed him from the profits of "Dr. Hoff'sCatarrh-Killer, " proved sadly insufficient to his needs. He mentionedthis fact to his father, so Average Jones' information ran, early inApril, and suggested an increase, only to be refused with some acerbity. 

"Oh, very well, " said he, "I'll go and make it myself. "

The amazement inspired in Doctor Hoff's mind by this pronouncement wasaugmented in the next few days by the fact that Roderick was very busyabout town in his motor-car, and was changed to vivid alarm immediatelythereafter by the young man's disappearance. To all intents andappearances, Roderick Hoff had dropped off the earth on or about Apriltwelfth. By April fifteenth New York, Pittsburg, Chicago, Washington andother clearing-houses for the distribution of the unspent increment wereapprised of the elder Hoff's five thousand-dollar anxiety through themedium of the daily press. This advertisement it was, upon the practicalmerits of which Average Jones and his confidential clerk had differed. 

"If there were any chance of sport in it, " mused Average Jones, "I'd goin. But to follow the trail of a spurious young sport from bar-room tobrothel and from brothel to gambling hell--" He shook his head. "Notgood enough, " he repeated. 

Simpson's face appeared at the door. His blond forehead was wrinkledwith excitement. 

"Doctor Hoff is here, Mr. Jones. I told him you couldn't see him, but hewouldn't take no. Says he was recommended to you by a former client. "

Following the word, there burst into Average Jones' private sanctum agross old man, silk-hatted and bediamonded, whose side-whiskers bristledwhitely with perturbed self-importance. In his hand was a patchy bundle. 

"They tried to stop me!" he sputtered. "Me! I'm worth ten milliondollars, an' a ten-dollar-a-week office toad tries to hold me up when Icome here myself person'ly, from Toledo to see you. "

Analysis of advertising in all its forms had inspired Average Joneswith a profound contempt and dislike for the cruelest of all forms ofswindling medical quackery. And this swollen, smug-faced intruder lookeda particularly offensive specimen of his kind. Therefore the Ad-Visorsaid curtly:

"I can't take your case. Good day--"

"Not take it! Did you read the reward?"

"Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker's touchingconfidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise it doesn't, interestme. Get some one else to find your young hopeful. "

"It ain't no case of findin' now. The boy's dead. " His strident voicequavered and broke, but rose again to a snarl. "And, by God, I'll spenda million to get the dogs that murdered him. "

At the word "murdered" Average Jones' clean cut, agreeable, but ratherstolidly neutral face underwent a subtle transformation. Anotherpersonality looked out from the deep-set, somnolent, gray eyes; apersonality resolute, forceful and quietly alert. It was apparentlybelied by the hesitant drawl, which, as all who had ever seen theAd-Visor at his chosen pursuits well knew, signified awakened orintensified interest in the matter in hand. 

"Where--er--is--the--er--body"

"I don't know. It ain't been found. "

"Then how do you know he's dead?"

The other tore open the bundle he carried, and spread before AverageJones a white stained shirt with ominous brown splotches. 

"It's his shirt. There's the initials. Mailed to my house and got therejust after I left. My secretary brought it on, with the note that comepinned to it. Here it is. "

He produced a bit of coarse wrapping-paper upon which was this messagein rough capital letters:

TWO DAGOES SHOT HIM DASSENT SAY NO MORE FROM A FRIEND IN CINCINNATI. Average Jones examined the wrapper. It was postmarked Cincinnati. Henext smoothed out the creased silk and studied minutely the blotches, which were heaviest about the left breast and shoulder. 

To the surprise of Doctor Hoff, the young man's glance roved the bigdesk before him, settling with satisfaction upon a sponge-cup formoistening stamps. Applying this to one of the spots on the shirt, herubbed the wetted portion vigorously on a sheet of paper which lay nearat hand. His lips pursed. He whistled very softly and meditatively. Hescratched his chin with a slow movement. 

"Is that all?" he shot out suddenly at the older man. 

"All! Ain't it enough? He's been murdered; murdered, I tell you, an' youset there an' whistle!"

Average Jones directed a dreamy smile toward a far comer of the room. 

"I don't see anything so far, " he observed, "to indicate that your sonis not alive and well at this moment. "

Doctor Hoff struck his fist down heavily on the desk. "What's thisyou're givin' me? Can't you read? Look at that note there, an' the bloodon the shirt. "

"Would you mind moderating your voice? My outside office is full of moreor less excitable clients, " said the Ad-Visor mildly. "Moreover, it'snot blood anyway. "

"What is it, then?"

"That's beside the question. Dried blood rubs off a faint buff color. "He picked up the sheet of paper from his desk. A deep brownish streakshowed where he had applied the moistened cloth. "It's the rawest kindof a blind. Why, the idiot who sent the shirt didn't even have the senseto fake bullet holes. Enough to make one lose all interest in the case, "he added disgustedly. 

Doctor Hoff began tugging at his side-whiskers. "Don't do nothing likethat, " he pleaded. "Come with me to Cincinnati. If he ain't dead they'vekidnapped him for a ransom. "

"Then Cincinnati is the last place on the map to look, because there'swhere they want you to think he is. But it doesn't look like a case ofransom to me. Let's see. Was he particularly drunk the day before hedisappeared?"

"No. He was sober. "

"Unusually sober, maybe?" suggested the other. 

"Yes, he was. Been sober for a week. An' he was studyin', too. "

"Ah! Studying what?"

"Spanish. "

"Spanish, eh? Ever exhibit any interest in foreign tongues before?"

"Not enough to get him through one term in college, " returned the othergrimly. 

"How did you know about his studying?"

"Seen the perfessor in the house. "

"Some one you knew?"

"No. I asked him. Roddy was sore because I found out what he was up to. "

Upon that point Average Jones meditated a moment. 

"Did you see this Spanish professor again?" he inquired presently. 

"Now that you speak of it, I didn't see him but the once. "

"Can you leave for Toledo on to-night's train?"

"You're goin' to take the case, then?" the quack clawed nervously at hisprofessional white whiskers. "What's your terms?" he demanded. 

"That I'm to have full control and that you're to take orders and notgive them. "

Doctor Hoff swallowed that with a gulp. "You're on, " he said finally. 

On the train Doctor Hoff regaled his companion with a strictly paternalview of his son's character and pursuits as he knew them. This served, at least, to enlarge his auditor's ideas as to the average Americanfather's vast and profound ignorance of the life, habits, manners andcustoms of that common but variable species, the Offspring. Beyondthis it had little value. Average Jones gave its author a few specificinstructions as to minor lines of home investigation, and retired to mapout a tentative campaign. 

His first call, on arriving at Toledo, was at the business office ofthe Daily Saw, in which he inserted the following paragraph on arepeat-until-stopped order:

 WANTED--Instructor in Spanish. One with recent Experience preferred. Apply between 9 and 10 A. M. Doctor Hoff, 360 Fairfield Avenue. 

Thence he climbed the stairs to the den of the city editor, to whom hestated his errand openly, being too wise in his day and generation toattempt concealment or evasion with a newspaper man from whom he wantedinformation. The city editor obligingly furnished further detailsregarding "Rickey" Hoff, as he called the young man, which, whilediffering in important respects from Doctor Hoff's, bore the ear-marksof superior accuracy. 

"The worst of it is, " said the newspaper man, "that there are elementsof decency about the young cub, if he'd keep sober. He won't go intothe old boy's business, because he hates it. Says it's all rot and lies. He's dead right, of course. But there's nothing else for him to do, sohe just fights booze. Better make a few inquiries at Silent Charley's. "

"What's that?"

"Quiet little bar kept by a talkative Swede. 'Rickey' Hoff hung outthere a lot. Charley even had a room fixed up for him to lay off in whenhe was too pickled to go home. "

"Would--er--young Hoff--er--perhaps keep a few--er--extra clothesthere?" asked Average Jones, seemingly struggling with a yawn. 

The city editor stared. "Oh, I dare say. He used to end his spreespretty much mussed up. "

"That would perhaps explain where the shirt came from, " murmured theAd-Visor. "Much obliged for the suggestion. I'll just step around. "

"Silent Charley" he found ready, even eager to talk. Yes; "Rickey" Hoffhad been in his place right along. Drunk? No; not even drinking muchlately. Two other gentlemen had met him there quite often. They sat inthe back room and talked. No, neither of them was Spanish. One was bigand clean-shaven and wore a silk hat. They called him "Colonel. " A swelldresser. The other man drank gin, and a lot of it. His name was Fred. Hewas very tanned. One day there had been a hot discussion over a sheet ofpaper that lay on the table in front of the three men in the back room. "Rickey" had called a messenger boy and sent him out for a geography. "Itold you there wasn't any such thing there, " the saloon-keeper heardhim say triumphantly, when the geography arrived. Then Fred replied: "Toh-ll with you and your schoolbook! I tell you I've waded across it. " Thecolonel smoothed things over and it ended in a magnum of champagne beingordered. 

"For which the colonel paid?" asked Average Jones. 

"Why, yes, he did, " assented the saloon man. "He said, 'Well, it's a go, then. Here's luck to us!' He was a good spender, the colonel. "

"And you haven't seen any of them since, I suppose?"

"Nary a one. "

On his return to the Hoff mansion the investigator found the headthereof in a state of great excitement. 

"Say, I've found out something, " he cried. "Roddy's gone to Yurrup. "

"Where did you find that out?" asked Average Jones with a smile. 

"I been going through his papers like you told me. He's been outfittingfor a trip. Bought lots of truck the last few days and I found theduplicate sale-checks that come in the packages. There's stubs fora steamer rug and for a dope for seasickness and for a compass, " heconcluded triumphantly. 

"Compass, eh?" observed Average Jones thoughtfully. "Ship's compass isgood enough for most of us going to Europe. Anything else?"

"Lot of clothes. "

"What kind of clothes?"

"Cheap stuff mostly. Khaki riding-pants, neglyjee shirts and such-like. "

"Not much suggestion of Europe there. What more?"

Doctor Hoff consulted a list. "Colored glasses. "

"That looks like desert travel. "

"Aneroid barometer. "

"Mountain climbing. "

"Permanganate of potash outfit. "

"Snake country, " commented the other. 

"Patent water-still. "

Average Jones leaned forward. "How big?"

"Don't know. Cost twenty dollars. "

"Little one, then. That means about three people. Taken with thecompass, it means a small-boat trip on salt water. "

"Small boat nothin'!" retorted the other. "His doctor met me thismorning an' told me Roddy had sent for him and ast him a lot ofquestions about eatin' aboard ship and which way to have his berth madeup, and all that. "

"A small-boat trip following a sea trip, then. What else have youfound?"

"Nothin' much. Mosquito nettin', pills, surgeon's plaster and odds andends of drugs. "

"Let me see the drug list. "

He ran his eye down the paper. Then he looked at Doctor Hoff with a halfsmile. 

"You didn't notice anything peculiar about this list?"

"Don't know as I did. "

"Not the--er--nitric acid, for instance?"

"Nope. What of it?"

"Mr. Hoff, your son has been caught by one of the oldest tricks in thewhole bunco list--the lost Spanish mine swindle. That acid, togetherwith the rest of the outfit, means a gold-hunt as plain as if itwere spelled out. And the Spanish professor was sent for, not to givelessons, but to translate the fake letter. Where does your son bank?"

"Fifth National. "

"Telephone there and find out how much he drew. "

Doctor Hoff sat down at the 'phone. "Five hundred dollars, " he saidpresently. 

"Is that all?" asked the other, disappointed. 

"Yes. Wait. He had six checks certified aggregating ten thousanddollars. "

"Then it isn't South America or the West Indies. He'd want, a letter ofcredit there. Must be some part of the United States, or just acrossthe border. Well, we've done a good day's work, and I've got a hardevening's thinking before me. We might be able to head off the colonel'spersonally conducted expedition yet, if we could locate it. "

The evening's thinking formulated itself into a telegram to AverageJones' club, the Cosmic. It was one among the many distinctions of themodest little club in Gramercy Park, that its membership pretty wellcomprised the range of available information on any topic. Underthe "favored applications clause, " a person whose knowledge of anyparticular subject was unique and authoritative, whether the topicwere Esperanto or fistiana, went to the head of the waiting--listautomatically and had his initiation fee remitted. Hence, Average Joneswas confident of a helpful reply to his message of inquiry, which summedup his conclusions and surmises thus far:

"Cosmic CLUB, NEW YORK CITY:

Refer following to geographical expert: Where is large, shallow, unmapped body of salt water in United States, or near border, surroundedby hot, snake-infested desert and mountainous country, reputed tocontain gold? Spanish associations indicated. Wire details and name ofbest guide, if obtainable. 

A. JONES. "

The reply was disappointing:

"Cyrus C. Allen absent from town. Will forward your wire. 

"COSMIC CLUB. "

Well poised as Average Jones normally was, he chafed over the ensuingdelay of four days, each of which gave the colonel's expedition just somuch start upon its unknown course. The only relief was a call from theSpanish instructor who answered Jones' advertisement. He was thesame who had served young Hoff. As the Ad-Visor surmised, his formeremployment had been merely the translation of a letter. The letter wasin base Spanish, he said. He didn't remember much of it, but there wassomething about a lost gold mine. Yes; there was reference to a map. No;no geographical names were mentioned, but in several places the capitalletters B. C. Seemed to indicate a locality. He hadn't noted the date orthe signature. That was all he could tell. 

Doctor Hoff, who had been ramping with impatience over the man's lack ofdefinite memory, now rushed to the atlas and began to study the maps. 

"You needn't trouble, " said Average Jones coolly. "You won't find itthere. "

"I'll find that B. C. If I have to go over every map in the geography. "

"Then you'll have to get a Spanish edition. For a guess, B. C. Is BajaCalifornia, the Mexican peninsula of California. "

Jones sent a supplementary wire to this effect to Cyrus C. Allen, of theCosmic Club, and within a few hours received a reply from that eminentcartographer, who had been located in a remote part of Connecticut:

"Probably Laguna Salada, not on map. Seventy miles long; four to eightwide. Between Cocopah and Sierra Gigantica ranges. Country very wild andarid. Can be reached by water from Yuma, or pack train from Calexico. White, who has hunted there, says Captain Funcke, Calexico, best guide. 

"ALLEN. "

Average Jones tossed this over to the father. 

"As I figure it, " he said, "your son's two friends had this all mappedout beforehand for him. One went west direct. He was the imbecile whostopped in Cincinnati and mailed you the bloody shirt to throw you offthe scent. Meantime the colonel took Roderick around by a sea route, probably New York and New Orleans. "

"That'd explain the steamer rug and the seasickness, " admitted DoctorHoff; "but I don't know what he'd want to go that long way for. "

"Simple enough, when you reckon with this colonel person as havingbrains in his head. He would foresee a hue and cry as soon as the youngman disappeared. So he cooks up this trip to keep his prey out of touchwith the newspapers for the few days when the news of the disappearancewould be fresh enough to be spread abroad in the Associated Pressdispatches. From New Orleans they'd go on west by train. "

"What I don't see is how they caught Roddy on such an old game. He'seasy, but I didn't s'pose he was that easy. "

"To do him justice, he isn't--quite. They put it up on him rathercleverly. In the period of waiting to hear from the geographical expertI've put in some fairly hard work, going over your son's effects. And, in the room over Silent Charley's bar, I found a newspaper with this init. "

He handed to Doctor Hoff a thin clipping, marked "Daily Saw, March 29":

 LOST--Spanish letter and map. Of no value except to owner, Return to No. 16, this office, and receive heartfelt thanks. 

"Well, " said Doctor Hoff, after reading it over twice, "that don't tellme nothing. "

"No? Yet it's pretty plain. The two crooks 'planted' the letter and mapon your son. Probably slipped them into a pocket of his coat while hewas drunk. Then they inserted their little ad, waited until he hadtime to find the letter, and casually called the advertisement to hisattention. The rest would be easy. But I'll have something to say to myclerk, who failed to clip that ad. "

"You're workin' for me, now, " half blustered, half whined the old quack. "Whatche goin' to do next?"

"Pack for the night train. "

"Where to?"

"Yuma or Calexico. Don't know which till I get a reply to two telegrams. I'll need five hundred dollars expense money. "

"Say, you don't want much, do ye?" snarled the quack, his avaricioussoul in revolt at the prospect of immediate outlay. "When I hire a man Iexpect him to pay his own expenses and send me the bill. "

"Quite so, " agreed the other blandly. "But, you see, you aren't hiringme. I'm doing this on spec. And I don't propose to invest anything ina dubious proposition, myself. It isn't too late to call it off, youknow. "

"No, I do' wanta do that, " said the other with contorted face. "I'll getthe five hundred here for' you in an hour. "

"And about the five thousand dollars reward? I think I'd better have aword of writing on that. "

"You mean you don't trust me?" snapped the other. "I'm good for fivemillion dollars to-morrow in this town. "

"I know you are--in writing, " agreed the other equably. "That's why Iwant your valued signature. You see, to be quite frank, I haven't thefullest confidence in gentlemen in your line of business. "

"I'll have my lawyer draw up a form of contract and mail it after youto-morrow, " promised the quack with a crafty look. 

"No, you wo--" began Average Jones; but he broke off with a smile. "Verywell, " he amended. "If things work out as I figure them, that will do. And, " he added, dropping into his significant drawl and lookingthe quack flatly in the eye, "don't you--er--bank on my--er--notunderstanding your offer--and--er--you. "

Uncomfortably pondering this reply, Doctor Hoff set about the matter ofthe expense money. Mean time a telegram came which settled the matterof immediate destination. It apprised Average Jones that, a fortnightprevious, this paragraph had appeared in the paid columns of the YumaYucca:

 WANTED-Small, flat-bottomed sailboat. Centerboard type preferred. Hasty, care this office. 

Average Jones bought a ticket for Yuma. 

Disembarking at the Yuma station three days later, Average Jones blinkedin the harsh sunlight at a small, compactly built, keen-eyed man, roughly dressed for the trail. 

"I'm Captain Funcke, " said the stranger. His speech was gentle, slow, even hesitant; but there was something competent and reliable in hisbearing which satisfied the shrewd young reader of men's characters fromthe outset. "Your wire got me two days since and I came right up. "

"Any trace?"

"Left here two days ago. "

"Three of them?"

"Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged pretty light. "

"Know anything of the men?"

"Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fake copperoutfit in the mountains east of Alamo. "

"Where do you think they're headed for?"

"Probably the wildest country they can find, if they want to get rid ofyoung Hoff, " said the other, who had been apprised of the main points ofthe situation. "That would likely be the Pinto range, to the southwestof the Laguna. Richford knows that country a little. He was in there twoyears ago. "

"They would probably want to get rid of him without obvious murder;"said Average Jones. "You see, his money is in certified checks whichthey'd have to get cashed. If some one should find his body with abullet-hole in it, they'd have some explaining to do. "

"Nobody'd be likely to find it. Only about two parties a year get' downthere. Still, somebody might trail him. And I guess old Richford is toofoxy to do any killing when he turns the trick just as well without it. "

"Suppose it's the Pintos, then. How do we get there?"

"Hard-ash breeze, " returned the other succinctly. "Our rowboat isoutfitted and waiting. "

"Good work!" said Jones heartily. "How far is it?"

"Sixty miles to the turn of the Laguna. There's a four-mile currentto help. They've a scant two days' start, and we'll catch up some, fortheir boat is heavier and their sail is no good with the wind in thisdirection. If we don't catch up some, " he added grimly, "I wouldn't wantto insure our young friend's life. So it's all aboard, if you're ready. "

For the first time since embarking upon the strange seas of advertisingin his quest of the Adventure of Life, Average Jones now met theexperience of grilling physical toil. All that day and all the nightthe two men swung at the oars; swung until every muscle in the youngEasterner's back had turned to live nerve-fiber, and the flesh had begunto strip from the palms of his hands. Even so, the hardy captain haddone most of the work. Aided by the current, they turned the shoulder ofthe Cocopah range as the dawn shone lurid in the east, and the captainswung the boat's head to the southern shore of the lake. Meantime, between spells at the oars, Average Jones had outlined the case in fullto Funcke. He could have found no better coadjutor:

By nature and equipment every really expert hunter and tracker is adetective. The subtleties of the trail sharpen both physical andmental sensibility. Captain Funcke was, by instinct, a student of thatcontinuous logic which constitutes the science of the chase, whether theprize of pursuit be a mountain sheep's horns or the scholar's need ofpraise for the interpreting of some half-obliterated inscription on apre-Hittite tomb. After long and silent consideration the captain gavehis views. 

"It isn't bunco. It's a hold-up. If Richford had wanted to stick youngHoff, he'd never have brought him here. There isn't 'color' enoughwithin eighty miles to gild a cigar band. It looks to me like the schemeis this: They get him off in the mountains, out of sight of the lake, so he'll have no landmark to go by. Then they scare him into signingco-partnership papers, and make him turn over those certified checks tothem. With the papers to show for it, they go out by Calexico andcash the checks in Los Angeles. They could put up the bluff that theirpartner was guarding the mine while they bought machinery and outfitted. That'd be good enough to cash certified checks by. "

"Yes; that's about the way I figure it out. You spoke of Richford'sbeing able to get rid of young Hoff effectually, without actual murder. "

"All he'd have to do would be to quit the boy while he was asleep. Atenderfoot would die of thirst over there in a short time. "

"Is there no water?"

"There's a tenaja they're depending on. But I doubt if they find anywater there now. It's been an extra dry season. "

"A tenaja?" queried the Ad-Visor. 

"Rock-basin holding rainwater, " explained the hunter. "There's beenno rainfall since August. If they find the tenaja empty they'll, havebarely enough in the canteens they pack to get them to the next water, the Tenaja Poquita, around behind the mountains and across the desertinto the next range. "

"What's the next water to that?"

"The Stream of Palms. That's a day and a half on foot. "

For the space of a hundred oar-strokes Average Jones ruminated. 

"Suppose--er--they didn't--er--find any water in the Tenaja Poquita, either?" he drawled. 

"Then they would be up against it. "

"And there's no other water in the Pintos?"

"Yes, there is, " said the captain. "There's a tenaja that's so high upand so hidden that it's only known to one other man besides me, and he'san Indian. It's less than an hour from the tenaja that Richford willtake his party to. And we're sure of finding water there. It never driesup this early. "

"Get me to young Hoff, then, Captain. You're in command from the momentwe land. "

It was broad day when the keel pushed softly into the muddy bottom of along, shallow arm of the lake. Captain Funcke rose, stretched the kinksout of his back, and jumped ashore. 

"You say I'm in command?" he inquired. 

"Absolute. "

"Then you roll up under that mesquite and fall asleep. I'm going to castabout for their trail. "

To the worn-out oarsman, it seemed only a few moments later that aninsistent grip on his shoulder aroused him. But the overhead sun, whosedirect rays were fairly boiling the sweat out of him, harshly correctedthis impression. 

"I've found their boat, " said Captain Funcke. "The trail heads for thePintos. They're traveling heavy. I don't believe they're twenty-fourhours ahead of us. "

Average Jones stumbled to his feet. "I'm ready, " he said. 

"It's a case of travel light. " The hunter handed over a small bag offood and a large canteen full of water. He himself packed a much largerload, including two canteens and a powerful field-glass. Taking ashotgun from the boat, he shouldered it, and set out at a long, easystride. 

To Average Jones the memory of that day has never been wholly clear. Sodden with weariness, dazzled and muddled by the savage sun-glare, hefollowed, with eyes fixed, the rhythmically, monotonously moving feetof his leader, through an interminable desert of soft, clogging sand;a desert which dropped away into parched arroyos, and rose to scorchedmesas whereon fierce cacti thrust at him with thorns and spikes; adesert dead and mummified in the dreadful heat; a lifeless Infernowherein moved neither beast, bird nor insect. He remembers, dimly, lyingas he fell, when the indefatigable captain called a halt, and beingwakened in the chill breeze of evening, to see a wall of mountainsblocking the advance. Food brought him to his normal self again, and inthe crisp air of night he set his face to the task of climbing. Severeas this was upon his unaccustomed muscles, the firm rocks were stilla welcome relief after the racking looseness of sand that interminablysank away from foothold. At midnight the wearied pursuers droppeddown from a high plateau to a narrow arroyo. Here again was sand. Fortunately, this time, for in it footprints stood out clear, illuminated by the white moonlight. They led direct to a side barranca. There the pursuers found the camp. It was deserted. 

Like a hound on the trail, Captain Funcke cast about him. 

"Here's where they came in. No--yes--this is it. Confound thecross-tracks!. . Here one of them cuts across the ridge to the tenaja forwater. 

"Wait!. . . What's this? Coyote trail? Yes, but. . . Trail brushed over, bythunder! They didn't do it carefully enough. . . Straight for the rockymesa. . . . That's it! They made their sneak while Hoff was asleep, probably covering trail behind them, and struck out for the insidedesert route to the Tenaja Poquita. " He took a quick look about the campand picked up an empty canteen. "Of course, they wouldn't leave him anywater. "

"Then he's gone to hunt it, " suggested Average Jones. "Which way?"

"You can't tell which way a tenderfoot will go, " said the hunterphilosophically. "If he had any savvy at all he'd follow the old beatentrack around by the arroyo to the water-hole. We'll try it. "

On the way, Average Jones noticed his companion stop frequently toexamine the sand for something which he evidently didn't find. 

"These are fresh footsteps we're following, aren't they?" he asked. 

"Yes. It isn't that. He went this way all right. But the tenaja's gonedry. "

"How can you tell that?"

"No fresh sign of animals going this way. Must have been dry for weeks. Our mining friends have taken what little water there was and left youngHoff to die of thirst, " said the other grimly. "Well, that explains theempty canteen all right. "

He turned and renewed his quick progress, leaping from boulder toboulder, between narrowing walls of gray-white rock. Just as AverageJones was spent and almost ready to collapse the leader checked. 

"Hark!" he whispered. 

Above the beating of the blood in his ears, Jones heard an irregular, insistent scuffing sound. He crouched in silence while the captain creptup to a ledge and cautiously peered over, then went forward in responseto the other's urgent beckoning. They looked down into a rock-basinof wild and curious beauty. To this day Average Jones remembers theluminous grace and splendor of a Matilija poppy, which, rooted betweentwo boulders, swayed gently in the white moonlight above a figure ofdread. The figure, naked from the waist up, huddled upon the hard-bakedmud, digging madly at the earth. A sharp exclamation broke from AverageJones. The digger half-rose, turned, collapsed to his knees, and pointedwith bleeding fingers to his open mouth, in which the tongue showedblack and swollen. 

They went down to him. 

An hour later, "Rickey" Hoff was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustionin camp. Average Jones felt amply qualified to join him. But it was notin the Ad-Visor's character to quit an enterprise before it was whollycompleted. So long as the two bandits were on their way to cash theyoung spendthrift's checks--Jones had heard from the victim a briefaccount of the extortion--success was not fully won. 

"We've got to get that money back, " he said to Captain Funcke withconviction. 

The hunter made no reply in words. He merely leaned his shotgun againsthis thigh, reached around beneath his coat and produced a forty-fivecaliber revolver. This he held out toward Jones. 

"Good thing to have, " conceded the other. "But--well, no; not in thiscase. They got the booty with a show of legality, since Hoff signed thecopartnership agreement and turned over the checks. It was under duressand threats, it's true, but who's to prove that, they being two to one, and this being Mexico? No; they're within the law, and I've a notionthat we can get the swag back by straight sale and barter. Provided, always, we can catch them in time. "

"They'll want to make pretty good time to the Tenaja Poquita, " pointedout the captain. "They're shy on water. "

"On wind, too. They've traveled hard, and they can't be in the pink ofcondition. According to Hoff, they deserted him while he was taking anap, about four o'clock in the afternoon. It's a fair bet they'd campfor the night, as you say it's an eight hour hike to the tenaja. "

"Eight, the way they'd go. "

"Then--er--there's a--er--shorter way?" drawled Average Jones, removingsome sand from a wrinkle in his scarified and soiled trousers ascarefully as if that were the one immediate and important considerationin life. 

"Yes. Across the Padre Cliffs. It cuts off about four hours, and ittakes us almost to the secret tenaja I spoke of. We can fill up there. But it's not what you'd call safe, even in daylight. "

"But to a hunter, wouldn't it be well worth the risk for a record pairof horns--even if they were only tin horns?" queried Average Jonessuggestively. 

Captain Funcke relaxed into a grin. He nodded. 

"What'll we do with him?" he asked, jerking his head toward the sleeper. 

"Leave him water, food and a note. Now, about this Tenaja Poquita we'reheaded for. How much water do you think there is in it?"

"If there's a hundred gallons it's doing well, this dry season. "

Average Jones got painfully to his feet. Looking carefully over thescattered camp outfit, he selected from it a collapsible pail. CaptainFuncke glanced at it with curiosity, but characteristically forebore toask any questions. He himself shouldered the largest canteen. 

"This'll be enough for both until we reach the supply, " he said. "Don'tneed so much water at night. "

But the tenderfoot hung upon his own shoulder, not only the smallest oftheir three canteens, but also the empty one which they had found in thecamp. Their own third tin, almost full, they left beside Hoff, with anote. 

"I've a notion, " said Jones, "that I'll need all these receptacles forwater in my own peculiar business. "

"All right, " assented the other patiently. He took one of them and thepail from Jones and skillfully disposed them on his own back. "Ready?Hike, then. "

Two hours of the roughest kind of climbing brought them to a landslide. These sudden shiftings of the slopes are a frequent feature of travelin the Lower California mountains, often obliterating trails and costingthe wayfarer painful and perilous search for a new path. On the PadreCliffs, however, had occurred that rare phenomenon, a benevolentavalanche, piling up a safe and feasible embankment around the angle ofan impracticable precipice, and thus saving an hour of the most ticklishgoing of the journey. Thanks to this dispensation, the two men reachedthe Tenaja Poquita before dawn. Scouting ahead, the captain reported nofresh trail except coyotes and mule deer, and not more than seventy-fivegallons of water in the basin. Of this they both drank deeply. Thenafter they had filled all the canteens, Average Jones unfolded hisscheme to the captain. 

"If any one caught us at it, " commented that experienced hunter, "we'dbe shot without warning. However, the water would be evaporated in afew days anyhow, and I'll post notices at the next watercamps. I'm withyou. "

Taking turn and turn about with the pail, they bailed out therock-basin, scattering the water upon the greedy sand. What littlemoisture remained in the sticky mud at the bottom they blotted up withmore sand. They then rolled in boulders. Average Jones looked down intothe hollow with satisfaction, and moved his full canteens into a grotto. 

"This company, " he said, "is now open for business. "

At eight o'clock there was a clatter of boots upon the rocks and two mencame staggering up the defile. Colonel Richford and his partner didnot look to be in good repair. The colonel's face was drawn andsun-blotched. His companion, the "Fred" of Silent Charley's bar, was bloated and shaken with liquor. Both panted with the hard, dry, open-lipped breath of the first stage of thirst-exhaustion. The colonel, who was in the lead, checked and started upon discovering astride ofa rock a pleasant visaged young man of a familiar American type, whoseappearance was in nowise remarkable except as to locality. With a gruntthat might have been greeting, but was more probably surprise, thenewcomer passed the seated man. Captain Funcke he did not see at all. That astute hunter had dropped behind a boulder. 

At the brink of the tenaja the colonel stopped dead. Then with anoutburst of flaming language, he leaped in, burrowing among the rocks. 

"Dry!" he yelled, lifting a furious and appalled face to his companion. 

Fred stood staring from Average Jones to his three canteens. There was amurderous look on his sinister face. 

"Got water?" he growled. 

"Yes, " replied the young man. 

"Here, Colonel, " said Fred. "Here's drink for us. "

"For sale, " added Average Jones calmly. 

"People don't buy water in this country. "

"You're not people, " returned Average Jones cheerfully. "You're acorporation; a soulless corporation. The North Pinto Gold MiningCompany. "

"What's that!" cried the colonel thickly. 

His hand flew back to his belt. Then it dropped, limp at his side, forhe was gazing into the two barrels of a shotgun, which, materializingover a rock, were pointing accurately and disconcertingly at the pit ofhis stomach. From behind the gun Captain Funcke's quiet voice remarked:

"I wouldn't, Colonel. As for you, " he added, turning to the otherwayfarer, who carried a rifle, "you want to remember that a shotgun hastwo barrels, usually both loaded. "

Stepping forward, Average Jones "lifted" the financier's weapon. Thenhe deprived Fred of his rifle amid a surprisingly brilliant outburst ofverbal pyrotechnics. 

"Now we can talk business comfortably, " he observed. 

"I can't talk at all pretty quick if I don't git a moistener, " said Fredpiteously. 

Pouring out a scant cupful of water into his hat, Average Jones handedit over. "Drink slowly, " he advised. "You've got about a hundreddollars' worth there at present quotations. "

Colonel Richford's head went up with a jerk. 

"Hundred dollars' worth!" he croaked, his eyes fiery with suspicion. "Are you going to hold up two men dying of thirst?"

"There's been only one man in danger of that death around here. His nameis Hoff. "

The redoubtable colonel gasped, and leaned back against a rock. 

"You'll be relieved to learn that he's safe. Now, to answer yourquestion: No, I don't propose to hold up two men for anything. I proposeto deal with the president and treasurer of the North Pinto Gold MiningCompany. As a practical mining man you will appreciate the absolutenecessity of water in your operations. The nearest available supply issome ten hours distant. Before you could reach it I fear that--er--yourcompany would--er--have gone out of existence. Therefore I am fortunatein being able to offer you a small supply which I will put on the marketat the low rate of ten thousand dollars. I may add that--er--certifiedchecks will--er--be accepted. "

For two hours the colonel, with the occasional objurgatory assistanceof his partner, talked, begged argued, threatened, and even wept. By theend of that time his tongue was making sounds like a muffled castanet, and his resolution was scorched out of him. 

"You've got us, " he croaked. "Here's your checks. Give me the water. "

"In proper and legal form, please, " said Average Jones. 

He produced a contract and a fountain-pen. The contract was dulysigned and witnessed. It provided for the transfer of the water, inconsideration of one revolver and ten thousand dollars in checks. Thesechecks were endorsed over to A. V. R. E. Jones, whereupon he turned overthe pail of water and the largest canteen to the parched miners. Then, sorting out the checks, he pocketed two aggregating five thousanddollars, tore up three, and holding the other in his hand, turned toCaptain Funcke. 

"Will five hundred dollars pay you for keeping young Hoff down here acouple of months and making the beginning of a man of him?" he asked. 

"Yes, and more, " replied the captain. 

"It's a go, " said Average Jones. "I'd like to make the job complete. "

Then, courteously bidding the North Pinto Gold Mining Company farewell, the two water-dealers clambered up the rocks and disappeared beyond theabrupt sky-line. 

Once again Doctor Conrad Hoff sat in the private office of AverageJones, Ad-Visor. The young man was thinner, browner and harder of fiberthan the Jones of two weeks previous. Doctor Hoff looked him over withshrewd eyes. 

"Say, your trip ain't done you no harm, has it?" he exclaimed with aboisterous and false good nature. "You look like' a fightin'-cock. Hopethe boy comes out as good. You say he's all right?"

"You've got his letter, in which he says so himself. That's enoughproof, isn't it?"

"Oh, I've got the letter all right. An' it's enough as far as it goes. But it ain't proof; not the kind of proof a man pays out reward moneyon, " he added, cunningly. "You say you left Roddy down there with thatFuncke feller, hey?"

"Yes. It'll make a man of him, if anything will. I threw that in as anextra. "

"Yes; but what about them two crooks that goldbricked him? What's becomeof them?"

"On their way to Alaska or Bolivia or Corea, or anywhere else, for all Iknow--or care, " said Average Jones indifferently. 

"Is that so?" The quack's voice had taken on a sneering intonation. "You come back here with your job not half done, with the guilty fellersloose an' runnin', an' you expect me to pay over, the five thousanddollars to you. Huh!"

"No, I--er--don't expect--er--anything of the sort, " said Average Jonesslowly. 

Doctor Hoff's little, restless eyes puckered at the corners. He waspuzzled. What did the young fellow mean?

"Don't, eh?" he said, groping in his mind for a solution. 

"No. You forgot to send me that promised form of agreement, didn't you?Thought you'd fooled me, perhaps. Well, I wouldn't be so foolish as toexpect anything in the way of fair and honorable dealing when I contractto do up a mining swindler for the benefit of the only meaner creatureon God's earth--a patent medicine poisoner. So I took precautions. "

"Say, be careful of what you say, young man, " blustered the quack. 

"I am--quite particular. And, before you leave, wouldn't you like tohear about the five thousand dollars I got for my little job?"

Doctor Hoff blinked rapidly. 

"What didje say?" he finally inquired. 

"Five--er--thousand--er--dollars. "

"You got it?"

"In the bank. "

"Where dje get it?"

"From you, through your son's check, duly certified. "

Doctor Hoff blinked more rapidly and moistened his lips with aneffortful tongue. 

"H-h-how dje work it?" he asked in a die-away voice. 

"By a forced sale of water rights to the North Pinto Gold MiningCompany, dissolved, in which Mr. Roderick Hoff was vice-president andsilent partner, " replied Average Jones with an amiable smile, as heopened the door significantly. 

CHAPTER IV. THE MERCY SIGN-ONE

"Want a job, Average?"

Bertram, his elegance undimmed by the first really trying weather of theearly summer, drifted to the coolest spot in the Ad-Visor's sanctum andspread his languid length along a wicker settee. 

"Give a man breathing space, can't you?" returned Average Jones. "Thisis hotter than Baja California. "

"Why, I assumed that your quest of the quack's scion would have trainedyou down fit for anything. "

"Haven't even caught up with the clippings that Simpson floods me with, since I came back, " confessed the other. "What have you got up yourfaultlessly creased sleeve? It's got to be something different to rouseme from a well-earned lethargy. "

"Because a man buncoes a loving father out of five thousand dollars, "Average Jones snorted gently, "is no reason why he should unanimouslyelect himself a life member of the Sons of Idleness, "' murmured Bertram. 

He cast an eye around the uniquely decorated walls, upon which hung, here, the shrieking prospectus of a mythical gold-mine; there a smallbut venomous political placard, and on all sides examples of theuncouth or unusual in paid print; exploitations of grotesque quackeries;appeals, business-like, absurd, or even passionate, in the form of"Wants;" threats thinly disguised as "Personals;"' dim suggestions ofcrime, of fraud, of hope, of tragedy, of mania, all decorated withthe stars of "paid matter" or designated by the Adv. Sign, and eachrepresenting some case brought to A. Jones, Ad-Visor--to quote hishybrid and expressive doorplate--by some one of his numerous andincongruous clients. 

"Something different?" repeated the visitor, reverting to Average Jones'last observation. "Well, yes; I think so. Where is Bellair Street?"

"Ask a directory. How should I know?" retorted the other lazily. "Soundslike old Greenwich Village. "

Bertram reached over with a cane of some pale, translucent green wood, selected to match his pale green tie and the marvelous green opalwhich held it in place, and prodded his friend severely in the ribs. "Double-up Lucy; the sun is in the sky!" he proclaimed with unwontedenergy. "Listen. I cut this out of yesterday's Evening Register. Withmy own fair hands I did it, to rouse you from your shameless sloth. Withyour kind attention, ladies and gentlemen--" He read:

 "WANTED--A young man, unattached, competent to act as assistant in outdoor scientific work. Manual skill as desirable as experience. Emolument for one month's work generous. Man without family insisted upon. Apply after 8:30 P. M. In proper person. Smith, 74 Bellair Street. "

Slowly whirling in his chair, Average Jones held out a hand, receivedthe clipping, read it through with attention, laid it on the desk, andyawned. 

"Is that all?" said the indignant Bertram. "Do you notice that'unattached' in the opening sentence? And the specification that theapplicant must be without family? Doesn't that inspire any notion abovea yawn in your palsied processes of mind?"

"It does; several notions. I yawned, " explained Average Jones withdignity, "because I perceive with pain that I shall have to go to work. What do you make of the thing, yourself?"

"Well, this man Smith--"

"What man Smith?"

"Smith, of 74 Bellair Street, who signs the ad. "

Average Jones laughed, "There isn't any Smith, " he said. 

"What do you know about it?" demanded Bertram, sitting up. 

"Only what the advertisement tells me. It was written by a foreigner;that's too obvious for argument. 'Emolument generous. ' 'Apply in properperson. ' Did a Smith ever write that? No. A Borgrevsky might have, or aGreiffenhauser, or even a Mavronovoupoulos. But never Smith. "

"Well, it's nothing to me what his name is. Only I thought you might bethe aspiring young scientist he was yearning for. "

"Wouldn't wonder if I were, thank you. Let's see. Bellair Street?Where's the directory? Thanks. Yes, it is Greenwich Village. Well, Ithink I'll just stroll down that way and have a look after dinner. "

Thus it was that Mr. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton Jones found himself on ahot May evening pursuing the Adventure of Life into the vestibule ofa rather dingy old house which had once been the abode of solemnprosperity if not actual aristocracy in the olden days of New York City. Almost immediately the telegraphic click of the lock apprised him thathe might enter, and as he stepped into the hallway the door of theright-hand ground-floor apartment opened to him. 

"You will please come in, " said a voice. 

The tone was gentle and measured. Also it was, by its accent, alien toany rightful Smith. The visitor stepped into a passageway which was dimuntil he entered it and the door swung behind him. Then it became pitchblack. 

"You will pardon this, " said the voice. "A severe affection of the eyescompels me. "

"You are Mr. Smith?" asked Average Jones. 

"Yes. Your hand if you please. "

The visitor, groping, brushed with his fingers the back of a hand whichfelt strangely hot and pulpy. Immediately the hand turned and closed, and he was led forward to an inner room and seated in a chair. Thegentle, hot clasp relaxed and left his wrist free. A door facing him, ifhis ears could be trusted, opened and shut. 

"You will find matches at your elbow, " said the voice, coming dulled, from a further apartment. "Doubtless you would be more comfortable witha light. "

"Thank you, " returned Average Jones, enormously entertained by thedime-novel setting which his host had provided for him. 

He lighted the gas and looked about a sparsely furnished room withouta single distinguishing feature, unless a high and odd-shapedtraveling-bag which stood on a chair near by could be so regarded. Thevoice interrupted his survey. 

"You have come in answer to my advertisement?"

"Yes, sir. "

"You are, then, of scientific pursuit?"

"Of scientific ambition, at least. I hope to meet your requirements. "

"Your name, if you please. "

"Jones; A. Jones, of New York City. "

"You live with your family?"

"I have no family or near relatives. "

"That is well. I will not conceal from, you that there are risks. Butthe pay is high. Can you endure exposure? Laboring in all weathers?Subsisting on rough fare and sleeping as you may?"

"I have camped in the northern forests. "

"Yes, " mused the voice. "You look hardy. "

Average Jones arose. "You--er--are spying upon me, then, " he drawledquietly. "I might have--er--suspected a peep-hole. "

He advanced slowly toward the door whence the voice came. A chairblocked his way. Without lowering his gaze he shoved at the obstaclewith his foot. 

"Have a care!" warned the voice. 

The chair toppled and overturned. From it fell, with a light shock, thestrange valise, which, striking the floor, flew open, disclosing a smallcardboard cabinet. Across the front of the cabinet was a strip of whitepaper labeled in handwriting, each letter being individual, with whatlooked to the young man like the word "MERCY. " He stooped to replace thebag. 

"Do not touch it, " ordered the voice peremptorily. 

Average Jones straightened up to face the door again. 

"I will apologize for my clumsiness, " he said slowly, "when you explainwhy you have tried to trick me. "

There was a pause. Then:

"Presently, " said the voice. "Meantime, after what you have accidentallyseen, you will perhaps appreciate that the employment is not without itsperil!"

Average Jones stared from the door to the floored cabinet and back againin stupefaction. 

"Perhaps I'm stupid, " he said, "but a misshapen valise containing acabinet with a girl's name on it doesn't seem calculated to scare anable-bodied man to death. It isn't full of dynamite, is it?"

"What is your branch of scientific work?" counter-questioned the other. 

"Botany, " replied the young man, at random. 

"No other? Physics? Entomology? Astronomy? Chemistry? Biology?"

The applicant shook his head in repeated negation. "None that I'vespecialized on. "

"Ah! I fear you will not suit my purpose. "

"All right. But you haven't explained, yet, why you've been studying methrough a peep-hole, when I am not allowed to see you. "

After a pause of consideration the voice spoke again. 

"You are right. Since I can not employ you, I owe you every courtesyfor having put you to this trouble. You will observe that I am not verypresentable. "

The side door swung open. In the dimness of the half-disclosed apartmentAverage Jones saw a man huddled in a chair. He wore a black skullcap. So far as identification went he was safe. His whole face wasgrotesquely blotched and swollen. So, also, were the hands which restedon his knees. 

"You will pardon me, " said Average Jones, "but I am by nature cautious. You have touched me. Is it contagious?"

A contortion of the features, probably indicating a smile, made thechangeling face more hideous than before. 

"Be at peace, " he said. "It is not. You can find your way out? I bid yougood evening, sir. "

"Now I wonder, " mused Average Jones, as he jolted on the rear platformof an Eighth Avenue car, "by what lead I could have landed that job. Irather think I've missed something. "

All that night, and recurrently on many nights thereafter, the poisonedand contorted face and the scrawled "MERCY" on the cabinet lurkedtroublously in his mind. Nor did Bertram cease to scoff him for hismaladroitness until both of them temporarily forgot the strange "Smith"and his advertisement in the entrancement of a chase which led them fora time far back through the centuries to a climax that might well havecost Average Jones his life. They had returned from Baltimore and thesociety of the Man who spoke Latin a few days when Bertram, at the club, called up Average Jones' office. 

"I'm sending Professor Paul Gehren to you, " was his message. "He'll callto-day or to-morrow. "

Average Jones knew Professor Gehren by sight, knew of him further byrepute as an impulsive, violent, warm-hearted and learned pundit who, for a typically meager recompense, furnished sundry classes of younggentlemen with amusement, alarm and instruction, in about equal parts, through the medium of lectures at the Metropolitan University. During vacations the professor pursued, with some degree of passion, experiments which added luster and selected portions of the alphabet tohis name. Twice a week he walked down-town to the Cosmic Club, where hewas wont to dine and express destructive and anarchistic views upon thenature, conduct, motives and personality of the organization's governingcommittees. 

On the day following Bertram's telephone, Professor Gehren enteredAstor Court Temple, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and, followingdirections, found himself scanning a ground-glass window flaunting thecapitalized and gilded legend, A. JONES, AD-VISOR

"Ad-Visor, " commented the professor, rancorously. "A vicious verbalmonstrosity!" He read on:

 ADVICE UPON ADVERTISING IN ALL FORMS Consultation Free. Step In

"Consultation free!" repeated the educator with virulence. "A trap!A manifest pitfall! I don't know why Mr. Bertram should have sent mehither. The enterprise is patently quack, " he asseverated in a risingvoice. 

Upon the word a young man opened the door and, emerging, received theaccusation full in the face. The young man smiled. 

"Quack, I said, " repeated the exasperated mentor, "and I repeat it. Quack!"

"If you're suffering from the delusion that you're a duck, " observed theyoung man mildly, "you'll find a taxidermist on the top floor. "

The caller turned purple. "If you are Mr. Jones, of the Cosmic Club--"

 "I am. "

"--there are certain things which Mr. Bertram must explain. "

"Yes; Bertram said that you were coming, but I'd almost given you up. Come in. "

"Into a--a den where free advice is offered? Of all the patent andinfernal rascalities, sir, the offer of free advice--"

"There, there, " soothed the younger man. "I know all about the freeswindles. This isn't one of them. It's just a fad of mine. "

He led the perturbed scholar inside and got him settled in a chair. "Now, go ahead. Show me the advertisement and tell me how much youlost. "

"I've lost my assistant. There is no advertisement about it. What I camefor is advice. But upon seeing your tricky door-plate--"

"Oh, that's merely to encourage the timorous. Who is this assistant?"

"Harvey Craig, a youth, hardly more than a boy, for whom I feel acertain responsibility, as his deceased parents left him in my care. "

"Yes, " said Jones as the professor paused. 

"He has disappeared. "

"When?"

"Permanently, since ten days ago. "

"Permanently?"

"Up to that time he had absented himself without reporting to me foronly three or four days at a time. "

"He lived with you?"

"No. He had been aiding me in certain investigations at my laboratory. "

"In what line?"

"Metallurgy. "

"When did he stop?"

"About four weeks ago. "

"Did he give any reason?"

"He requested indefinite leave. Work had been offered him, he hinted, ata very high rate of remuneration. "

"You don't know by whom?"

"No, I know nothing whatever about it. "

"Have you any definite suspicions as to his absence?"

"I gravely fear that the boy has made away with himself. "

"Why so?"

"After his first absence I called to see him at his room. He hadobviously undergone a violent paroxysm of grief or shame. "

"He told you this?"

"No. But his eyes, and, indeed, his whole face, were abnormally swollen, as with weeping. "

"Ah, yes. " Average Jones' voice had suddenly taken on a boredindifference. "Were--er--his hands, also?"

"His hands? Why should they?"

"Of course, why, indeed? You noted them?"

"I did not, sir. "

"Did he seem depressed or morose?"

"I can not say that he did. "

"Professor Gehren, what, newspaper do you take?"

The scholar stared. "The Citizen in the morning, The Register in theevening. "

"Are either of them delivered to your laboratory?"

"Yes; the Register. "

"Do you keep it on file?"

"No. "

"Ah! That's a pity. Then you wouldn't know if one were missing?"

The professor reflected. "Yes, there was a copy containing a letter uponVon Studeborg's recent experiments--"

"Can you recall the date?"

"After the middle of June, I think. "

Average Jones sent for a file and handed it to Professor Gehren. 

"Is this it?" he asked, indicating the copy of June 18. 

"That is the letter!" said that gentleman. 

Average Jones turned the paper and found, upon an inside page, thestrange advertisement from 74 Bellair Street. 

"One more question, Professor, " said he. "When did you last see Mr. Craig?"

"Nine or ten days ago. I think it was July 2. "

"How did he impress you?"

"As being somewhat preoccupied. Otherwise normal. "

"Was his face swollen then?"

"No. "

"Where did you see him?"

"The first time at my laboratory, about eleven o'clock. "

"You saw him again that day, then?"

"Yes. We met by accident at a little before two P. M. On Twenty-thirdStreet. I was surprised, because he had told me he had to catch a noontrain and return to his work. "

"Then he hadn't done so?"

"Yes. He explained that he had, but that he had been sent back to buysome supplies. "

"You believe he was telling the truth?"

"In an extensive experience with young men I have never known a moretruthful one than he. "

"Between the first day of his coming back to New York and the last, hadyou seen him?"

"I had talked with him over the telephone. He called up two or threetimes to say that he was well and working hard and that he hoped to beback in a few weeks. "

"Where did he call up from?"

"As he did not volunteer the information, I am unable to say. "

"Unfortunate again. Well, I think you may drop the notion of suicide. Ifanything of importance occurs, please notify me at once. Otherwise, I'llsend you word when I have made progress. "

Having dismissed the anxious pundit, Average Jones, so immersed inthought as to be oblivious to outer things, made his way to the CosmicClub in a series of caroms from indignant pedestrian to indignantpedestrian. There, as he had foreseen, he found Robert Bertram. 

"Can I detach you from your usual bridge game this evening?" he demandedof that languid gentleman. 

"Very possibly. What's the inducement?"

"Chapter Second of the Bellair Street advertisement. I've told you thefirst chapter. You've been the god-outside-the-machine so far. Now, comeon in. "

Together they went to the Greenwich Village house. The name "Smith" haddisappeared from the vestibule. 

"As I expected, " said Jones. "Our hope be in the landlord!"

The landlord turned out to be a German landlady, who knew littleconcerning her late ground-floor tenant and evinced no interest in thesubject. The "perfessor, " as she termed "Smith, " had taken the flatby the month, was prompt in payment, quiet in habit, given to long andfrequent absences; had been there hardly at all in the last few weeks. Where had he moved to? Hummel only knew! He had left no address. Wheredid his furniture go? Nowhere; he'd left it behind. Was any one in thehouse acquainted with him? Mrs. Marron in the other ground-floor flathad tried to be. Not much luck, she thought. 

Mrs. Marron was voluble, ignorant, and a willing source of information. 

"The perfessor? Sure! I knew'm. 'Twas me give'm the name. He was aMejum. Naw! Not for money. Too swell for that. But a real-thing Mejum. A big one; one of the kind it comes to, nacheral. Spirit-rappin's!Somethin' fierce! My kitchen window is on the air-shaft. So's his. Many's the time in the still evenin's I've heard the rap-rap-rappin' onhis window an' on the wall, but mostly on the window. Blip! out of thedark. It'd make you just hop! And him sittin' quiet and peaceful in thefront room all the time. Yep; my little girl seen him there while I washearin' the raps. "

"Did you ask him about them?" inquired Jones. 

"Sure! He wouldn't have it at first. Then he kinder smiled and halfowned up. And once I seen him with his materializin' wand, sittin' inthe room almost dark. "

"His what?"

"Materializin' wand. Spirit-rod, you know. As tall as himself and allshiny and slick. It was slim and sort o' knobby like this wood--what'sthe name of it, now?--they make fish poles out of. Only the realbig-bugs in spiritualism use 'em. They're dangerous. You wouldn't caichme touchin' it or goin' in there even now. I says to Mrs. Kraus, Isays--"

And so the stream of high-pitched, eager talk flowed until the two menescaped from it into the vacant apartment. This was much as AverageJones had seen on his former visit. Only the strange valise was missing. Going to the kitchen, which he opened through intermediate doors on astraight line with the front room, Average Jones inspected the window. The glass was thickly marked with faint, bluish blurs, being, indeed, almost opaque from them in the middle of the upper pane. There wasnothing indicative below the window, unless it were a considerableamount of crumbled putty, which he fingered with puzzled curiosity. 

In the front room a mass of papers had been half burned. Some ofthem were local journals, mostly the Evening Register. A few werepublications in the Arabic text. 

"Oriental newspapers, " remarked Bertram. 

Average Jones picked them up and began to fold them. From between twosheets fluttered a very small bit of paper, narrow and half curled, asif from the drying of mucilage. He lifted and read it. 

"Here we are again, Bert, " he remarked in his most casual tone. "Thequality of this Mercy is strained, all right. "

The two men bent over the slip, studying it. The word was, as AverageJones had said, in a strained, effortful handwriting, and each letterstood distinct. These were the characters:

MERCY

"Is it mathematical, do you think, possibly?" asked Average Jones. 

"All alone by itself like that? Rather not! More like a label, if youask me. "

"The little sister of the label on the cabinet, then. "

"Cherchez la femme, " observed Bertram. "It sounds like perfectfoolishness to me; a swollen faced outlander who rules familiar spiritswith a wand, and, between investigations in the realms of science, writes a girl's name all over the place like a lovesick school-boy! IsMercy his spirit-control, do you suppose?"

"Oh, let's get out of here, " said Average Jones. "I'm getting dizzywith it all. The next step, " he observed, as they walked slowly up thestreet, "is by train. Want to take a short trip to-morrow, Bert? Or, perhaps, several short trips?"

"Whither away, fair youth?"

"To the place where the fake 'Smith' and the lost Craig have been doingtheir little stunts. "

"I thought you said Professor Gehren couldn't tell you where Craig hadgone. "

"No more he could. So I've got to find out for myself. Here's the wayI figure it out: The two men have been engaged in some out-of-door workthat is extra hazardous. So much we know. Harvey Craig has, I'm afraid, succumbed to it. Otherwise he'd have sent some word to Professor Gehren. He may be dead or he may only be disabled by the dangerous character ofthe work, whatever it was. In any case our mysterious foreign friendhas probably skipped out hastily. Now, I propose to find the railroadstation they passed through, coming and going, and interview the ticketagent. "

"You've got a fine large contract on your hands to find it. "

"Not so large, either. All we have to do is to look for a place that isvery isolated and yet quite near New York. "

"How do you know it is quite near New York?"

"Because Harvey Craig went there and back between noon and two o'clock, Professor Gehren says. Now, we've got to find such a place which isnear a stretch of deserted, swampy ground, very badly infested withmosquitoes. I'd thought of the Hackensack Meadows, just across the riverin Jersey. "

"That is all very well, " said Bertram; "but why mosquitoes?"

"Why, the poisoned and swollen face and hands both of them sufferedfrom, " explained Average Jones. "What else could it be?"

"I'd thought of poison-ivy or some kind of plant they'd been grubbingat. "

"So had I. But I happened to think that anything of that sort, if it hadpoisoned them once, would keep on poisoning them, while mosquitoes theycould protect themselves against, if they didn't become immune, as theymost likely would. As there must have been a lot of 'skeeters' to do thekind of job that 'Smith's' face showed, I naturally figured on a swamp. "

"Average, " said Bertram solemnly, "there are times when I conceive asort of respect for your commonplace and plodding intellect. Now, letme have my little inning. I used to commute--on the Jersey and DelawareShort Line. There's a station on that line, Pearlington by name, that'sa combination of Mosquitoville, Lonesomehurst and Nutting Doon. It's inthe mathematical center of the ghastliest marsh anywhere between Hereand Somewhere else. I think that's our little summer resort, and I'myours for the nine A. M. Train to-morrow. "

Dismounting from that rather casual accommodation on the following day, the two friends found Pearlington to consist of a windowed packing-boxinhabited by a hermit in a brass-buttoned blue. This lonely officialreadily identified the subjects of Average Jones' inquiry. 

"I guess I know your friends, all right. The dago was tall and thin andhad white hair; almost snow-white. No, he wasn't old, neither. He talkedvery soft and slow. Used to stay off in the reeds three and four daysat a time. No, ain't seen him for near a week; him nor his boat northe young fellow that was with him. Sort of bugologists, or something, wasn't they. "

"Have you any idea where we could find their camp?"

The railroad man laughed. 

"Fine chance you got of finding anything in that swamp. There's tensquare miles of it, every square just like every other square, anda hundred little islands, and a thousand creeks and rivers windingthrough. "

"You're right, " agreed Average Jones. "It would take a month to searchit. You spoke of a boat. "

"It's my notion they must have had a houseboat. They could a-rowed it upon the tide from the Kills--a little one. I never saw no tent with 'em. And they had to have something over their heads. The boat I seen 'emhave was a rowboat. I s'pose they used it to go back and forth in. "

"Thanks, " said Average Jones. "That's a good idea about the houseboat. "

On the following day this advertisement appeared in the newspapers ofseveral shore towns along the New Jersey and Staten Island coast. 

 A DRIFT--A small houseboat lost several days ago from the Hackensack Meadows. Fifty dollars reward paid for information leading to recovery. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple, New York. 

Two days later came a reply, locating the lost craft at Bayonne. Average Jones went thither and identified it. Within its single roomwas uttermost confusion, testifying to the simplest kind of housekeepingsharply terminated. Attempt had been made to burn the boat before it wasgiven to wind and current, but certain evidences of charred wood, andthe fact of a succession of furious thunder-showers in the week past, suggested the reason for failure. In a heap of rubbish, where thefire had apparently started, Average Jones found, first, a Washingtonnewspaper, which he pocketed; next, with a swelling heart, the wreck ofthe pasteboard cabinet, but no sign of the strange valise which had heldit. The "Mercy" sign was gone from the cabinet, its place being suppliedby a placard, larger, in a different handwriting, and startlingly morespecific:

"DANGER! IF FOUND DESTROY AT ONCE. Do Not Touch With Bare Hands. "

There was nothing else. Gingerly, Average Jones detached the sign. Thecabinet proved to be empty. He pushed a rock into it, lifted it on theend of a stick and dropped it overboard. One after another eight littlefishes glinted up through the water, turned their white bellies to thesunlight and bobbed, motionless. The investigator hastily threw away thelabel and cast his gloves after it. But on his return to the city hewas able to give a reproduction of the writing to Professor Gehren whichconvinced that anxious scholar that Harvey Craig had been alive and ableto write not long before the time when the houseboat was set adrift. 

CHAPTER V. THE MERCY SIGN--TWO

Some days after the recovery of the houseboat, Average Jones sat atbreakfast, according to his custom, in the cafe of the Hotel Palatia. Several matters were troubling his normally serene mind. First of thesewas the loss of the trail which should have led to Harvey Craig. Second, as a minor issue, the Oriental papers found in the deserted BellairStreet apartment had been proved, by translation, to consist mainly ofrevolutionary sound and fury, signifying, to the person most concerned, nothing. As for the issue of the Washington daily, culled from thehouseboat, there was, amidst the usual melange of social, diplomatic, political and city news, no marked passage to show any reason for itshaving been in the possession of "Smith. " Average Jones had studied andrestudied the columns, both reading matter and advertising, until heknew them almost by heart. During the period of waiting for his orderto be brought he was brooding over the problem, when he felt ahand-pressure on his shoulder and turned to confront Mr. Thomas ColvinMcIntyre, solemn of countenance and groomed with a supernal modesty ofelegance, as befitted a rising young diplomat, already Fifth AssistantSecretary of State of the United States of America. 

"Hello, Tommy, " said the breakfaster. "What'll you have to drink? Anentente cordialer?"

"Don't joke, " said the other. "I'm in a pale pink funk. I'm afraid tolook into the morning papers. "

"Hello! What have you been up to that's scandalous?"

"It isn't me, " replied the diplomat ungrammatically. "It's Telfik Bey. "

"Telfik Bey? Wait a minute. Let me think. " The name had struck aresponse from some thought wire within Average Jones' perturbed brain. Presently it came to him as visualized print in small head-lines, reproduced to the mind's eye from the Washington newspaper which he hadso exhaustively studied. 

 THIS TURK A QUICK JUMPER Telfik Bey, Guest of Turkish Embassy, Barely Escapes a Speeding Motor-Car

No arrest, it appeared, had been made. The "story, " indeed, was brief, and of no intrinsic importance other than as a social note. But toAverage Jones it began to glow luminously. 

"Who is Telfik Bey?" he inquired. 

"He isn't. Up to yesterday he was a guest of this hotel. "

"Indeed! Skipped without paying his bill?"

"Yes--ah. Skipped--that is, left suddenly without paying his bill, ifyou choose to put it that way. "

The tone was significant. Average Jones' good natured face became grave. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Tommy. Was he a friend of yours?"

"No. He was, in a sense, a ward of the Department, over here oninvitation. This is what has almost driven me crazy. "

Fumbling nervously in the pocket of his creaseless white waistcoat hebrought forth a death notice. 

"From the Dial, " he said, handing it to Average Jones. 

The clipping looked conventional enough. 

 DIED--July 21, suddenly at the Hotel Palatia: Telfik Bey of Stamboul, Turkey. Funeral services from the Turkish Embassy, Washington, on Tues. Ana Alhari. 

"If the newspapers ever discover--" The young diplomat stopped shortbefore the enormity of the hypothesis. 

"It looks straight enough to me as a death notice, except for the tail. What does 'Ana Alhari' mean? Sort of a requiescat?"

"Yes; like a mice!" said young Mr. McIntyre bitterly. "It means'Hurrah!' That's the sort of requiescat it is!"

"Ah! Then they got him the second time. "

"What do you mean by 'second time?"'

"The Washington incident, of course, was the first; the attemptedmurder--that is, the narrow escape of Telfik Bey. "

Young Mr. McIntyre looked baffled. "I'm blessed if I know what you'reup to, Jones, " he said. "But if you do know anything of this case I needyour help. In Washington, where they failed, we fooled the newspapers. Here, where they've succeeded--"'

"Who are 'they?'" interrupted Jones. 

"That's what I'm here to get at. The murderers of Telfik Bey, of course. My instructions are to find out secretly, if at all. For if it doesget into the newspapers there'll be the very deuce to pay. It isn'tdesirable that even Telfik Bey's presence here should have been knownfor reasons which--ah--(here Average Jones remarked the resumption ofhis friend's official bearing)--which, not being for the public, I neednot detail to you. "

"You need not, in point of fact, tell me anything about it at all, "observed Average Jones equably. 

Pomposity fell away from Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, leaving himpalpably shivering. 

"But I need your help. Need it very much. You know something abouthandling the newspapers, don't you?"

"I know how to get things in; not how to keep them out. "

The other groaned. "It may already be too late. What newspapers have youthere?"

"All of 'em. Want me to look?"

Mr. McIntyre braced himself. 

"Turk dies at Palatia, " read Average Jones. "Mm--heart disease. . . Wealthy Stamboul merchant. . . Studying American methods. . . Turkishminister notified. "

"Is that all?"

"Practically. "

"And the other reports?"

Average Jones ran them swiftly over. "About the same. Hold on! Here's alittle something extra in the Universal. "

"'Found on the floor. . . Bell-boy who discovered the tragedy collapses. . . Condition serious. . . Supposedly shock--"

"What's that?" interrupted young Mr. McIntyre, half rising. "Shot?"

"You're nervous, Tommy. I didn't say 'shot. ' Said 'shock. "'

"Oh, of course. Shock--the bell-boy, it means. "

"See here; first thing you know you'll be getting me interested. Hadn'tyou better open up or shut up?"

Mr. McIntyre took a long breath and a resolution simultaneously. 

"At any rate I can trust you, " he said. "Telfik Bey is not a merchant. He is a secret, confidential agent of the Turkish government. He cameover to New York from Washington in spite of warnings that he would bekilled. "

"You're certain he was killed?"

"I only wish I could believe anything else. "

"Shot?"

"The coroner and a physician whom I sent can find no trace of a wound. "

"What do they say?"

"Apoplexy. "

"The refuge of the mystified medico. It doesn't satisfy you?"

"It won't satisfy the State Department. "

"And possibly not the newspapers, eventually. "'

"Come up with me and look the place over, Average. Let me send for themanager. "

That functionary came, a vision of perturbation in a pale-gray coat. Upon assurance that Average Jones was "safe" he led the way to the roomsso hastily vacated by the spirit of the Turkish guest. 

"We've succeeded in keeping two recent suicides and a blackmail schemein this hotel out of the newspapers, " observed the manager morosely. "But this would be the worst of all. If I could have known, when theTurkish Embassy reserved the apartment--"

"The Turkish Embassy never reserved any apartment for Telfik Bey, " putin the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State. 

"Surely you are mistaken, sir, " replied the hotel man. "I saw theiremissary myself. He specified for rooms on the south side, either thethird or fourth floor. Wouldn't have anything else. "

"You gave him a definite reservation?" asked Jones. 

"Yes; 335 and 336. "

"Has the man been here since?"

"Not to my knowledge. "

"A Turk, you think?"

"I suppose so. Foreign, anyway. "

"Anything about him strike you particularly?"

"Well, he was tall and thin and looked sickly. He talked very soft, too, like a sick man. "

The characterization of the Pearlington station agent recurred to theinterrogator's mind. "Had he--er--white hair?" he half yawned. 

"'No, " replied the manager, and, in the same breath, the buddingdiplomat demanded:

"What are you up to, Average? Why should he?"

Average Jones turned to him. "To what other hotels would the TurkishEmbassy be likely to send its men?"

"Sometimes their charge d'affaires goes to the Nederstrom. "

"Go up there and find out whether a room has been reserved for TelfikBey, and if so--"

"They wouldn't reserve at two hotels, would they?"

"By whom, " concluded Average Jones, shaking his head at theinterruption. "Find out who occupied or reserved the apartments oneither side. "

Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre lifted a wrinkling eyebrow. "Really, Jones, "he observed, "you seem to be employing me rather in the capacity of amessenger boy. "

"If you think a messenger boy could do it as well, ring for one, "drawled Average Jones, in his mildest voice. "Meantime, I'll be in theTurk's room here. "

Numbers 335 and 336, which the manager opened, after the prompt ifsomewhat sulky departure of Mr. McIntyre, proved to consist of a smallsitting room, a bedroom and a bath, each with a large window giving onthe cross-street, well back from Fifth Avenue. 

"Here's where he was found. " The manager indicated a spot near the wallof the sitting-room and opposite the window. "He had just pushed thebutton when he fell. "

"How do you know that?"

"Bronson, the bell-boy on that call, answered. He knocked several timesand got no answer. Then he opened the door and saw Mr. Telfik down, allin a heap. "

"Where is Bronson?"

"At the hospital, unconscious. "

"What from?"

"Shock, the doctors say. "

"What--er--about the--er--shot?"

The manager looked startled. "Well, Bronson says that just as he openedthe door he saw a bullet cross the room and strike the wall above thebody. "

"You can't see a bullet in flight. "

"He saw this one, " insisted the manager. "As soon as it struck itexploded. Three other people heard it. "

"What did Bronson do?"

"Lost his head and ran out. He hadn't got halfway to the elevator whenhe fell, in a sort of fainting fit. He came to long enough to tell hisstory. Then he got terribly nauseated and went off again. "

"He's sure the man had fallen before the explosion?"

"Absolutely. "

"And he got no answer to his knocking?"

"No. That's why he went in. He thought something might be wrong. "

"Had anybody else been in the room or past it within a few minutes?"

"Absolutely no one. The floor girl's desk is just outside. She must haveseen anyone going in. "

"Has she anything to add?"

"She heard the shot. And a minute or two before, she had heard and felta jar from the room. "

"Corroborative of the man having fallen before the shot, " commentedJones. 

"When I got here, five minutes later, he was quite dead, " continued themanager. 

Evidence of the explosion was slight to the investigating eye of AverageJones. The wall showed an abrasion, but, as the investigator expected, no bullet hole. Against the leg of a desk he found a small metal shell, which he laid on the table. 

"There's your bullet, " he observed with a smile. 

"It's a cartridge, anyway, " cried the hotel man. "He must have beenshot, after all. "

"From inside the room? Hardly! And certainly not with that. It's a verysmall fulminate of mercury shell, and never held lead. No. The man wasdown, if not dead, before that went off. "

Average Jones was now at the window. Taking a piece of paper from hispocket he brushed the contents of the window-sill upon it. A dozen deadflies rolled upon the paper. He examined them thoughtfully, cast themaside and turned back to the manager. 

"Who occupy the adjoining rooms?"

"Two maiden ladies did, on the east. They've left, " said the managerbitterly. "Been coming here for ten years, and now they've quit. If thefacts ever get in the newspapers--"

"What's on the west, adjoining?"

"Nothing. The corridor runs down there. "

"Then it isn't probable that any one got into the room from eitherside. "

"Impossible, " said the manager. 

Here Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre arrived with a flushed face. 

"You are right, Average, " he said. "The same man had reserved rooms atthe Nederstrom for Telfik Bey. "

"What's the location?"

"Tenth floor; north side. He had insisted on both details. Nos. 1015, 1017. "

"What neighbors?"

"Bond salesman on one side, Reverend and Mrs. Salisbury, of Wilmington, on the other. "

"Um-m-m. What across the street?"

"How should I know? You didn't tell me to ask. "

"It's the Glenargan office building, just opened, Mr. Jones, "volunteered the manager. 

Average Jones turned again to the window, closed it and fastened hishandkerchief in the catch. "Leave that there, " he directed the manager. "Don't let any one into this room. I'm off. "

Stopping to telephone, Average Jones ascertained that there were novacant offices on the tenth floor, south side of the Glenargan apartmentbuilding, facing the Nederstrom Hotel. The last one had been let twoweeks before to--this he ascertained by judicious questioning--adark, foreign gentleman who was an expert on rugs. Well satisfied, theinvestigator crossed over to the skyscraper across from the Palatia. There he demanded of the superintendent a single office on the thirdfloor, facing north. He was taken to a clean and vacant room. One glanceout of the window showed him his handkerchief, not opposite, but well tothe west. 

"Too near Fifth Avenue, " he said. "I don't like the roar of thetraffic. "

"There's one other room on this floor, farther along, " said thesuperintendent, "but it isn't in order. Mr. Perkins' time isn't up tillday after tomorrow, and his things are there yet. He told the janitor, though, that he was leaving town and wouldn't bother to take away thethings. They aren't worth much. Here's the place. "

They entered the office. In it were only a desk, two chairs and a scrapbasket. The basket was crammed with newspapers. One of them was theHotel Register. Average Jones found Telfik Bey's name, as he hadexpected, in its roster. 

"I'll give fifty dollars for the furniture as it stands. "

"Glad to get it, " was the prompt response. "Will you want anything else, now?"

"Yes. Send the janitor here. "

That worthy, upon receipt of a considerable benefaction, expressedhimself ready to serve the new tenant to the best of his ability. 

"Do you know when Mr. Perkins left the building?"

"Yes, sir. This morning, early. "

"This morning! Sure it wasn't yesterday?"

"Am I sure? Didn't I help him to the street-car and hand him his littlepackage? That sick he was he couldn't hardly walk alone. "

Average Jones pondered a moment. "Do you think he could have passed thenight here?"

"I know he did, " was the prompt response. "The scrubwoman heard him whenshe came this morning. "

"Heard him?"

"Yes' sir. Sobbing, like. "

The nerves of Average Jones gave a sharp "kickback, " like a mis-crankedmotor-car. His trend of thought had suddenly been reversed. The deviousand scientific slayer of Telfik Bey in tears? It seemed completely outof the picture. 

"You may go, " said he, and seating himself at the desk, proceeded to anexamination of his newly acquired property. The newspapers in the scrapbasket, mainly copies of the Evening Register, seemed to contain, uponcursory examination, nothing germane to the issue. But, scattered amongthem, the searcher found a number of fibrous chips. They were short andthick; such chips as might be made by cutting a bamboo pole into crosslengths, convenient for carrying. 

"The 'spirit-wand, "' observed Average Jones with gusto. "That was the'little package, ' of course. "

Next, he turned his attention to the desk. It was bare, except for afew scraps of paper and some writing implements. But in a crevice thereshone a glimmer of glass. With a careful finger-nail Average Jonespushed out a small phial. It had evidently been sealed with lead. Nothing was in it. 

Its discoverer leaned back and contemplated it with stiffened eyelids. For, upon its tiny, improvised label was scrawled the "Mercy sign;"mysterious before, now all but incredible. 

For silent minutes Average Jones sat bemused. Then, turning in amessenger call, he drew to him a sheet of paper upon which he slowly andconsideringly wrote a few words. 

"You get a dollar extra if this reaches the advertising desk of theRegister office within half an hour, " he advised the uniformed urchinwho answered the call. The modern mercury seized the paper and fledforthwith. 

Punctuality was a virtue which Average Jones had cultivated to thepoint of a fad. Hence it was with some discountenance that his clerk wasobliged to apologize for his lateness, first, at 4 P. M. Of July 23, to a very dapper and spruce young gentleman in pale mauve spats, whowouldn't give his name; then at 4:05 P. M. Of the same day to ProfessorGehren, of the Metropolitan University; and finally at 4:30 P. M. To Mr. Robert Bertram. When, only a moment before five, the Ad-Visor entered, the manner of his apology was more absent than fervent. 

Bertram held out a newspaper to him. 

"Cast your eye on that, " said he. "The Register fairly reeks with freakslately. "

Average Jones read aloud. 

 SMITH-PERKINS, formerly 74 Bellair-Send map present location H. C. Turkish Triumph about smoked out. MERCY--Box 34, Office. 

"Oh, I don't know about its being so freakish, " said Average Jones. 

"Nonsense! Look at it! Turkish Triumph--that's a cigarette, isn't it? H. C. --what's that? And signed Mercy. Why, it's the work of a lunatic!"

"It's my work, " observed Average Jones blandly. 

The three visitors stared a him in silence. 

"Rather a forlorn hope, but sometimes a bluff will go, " he continued. 

"If H. C. Indicates Harvey Craig, as I infer, " said Professor Gehrenimpatiently, "are you so infantile as to suppose that his murderer willgive information about him?"

Average Jones smiled, drew a letter from his pocket, glanced at it andcalled for a number in Hackensack. 

"Take the 'phone, Professor Gehren, " he said, when the reply came. "It'sthe Cairnside Hospital. Ask for information about Harvey Craig. "

With absorbed intentness the other three listened to the one-sidedconversation. 

"Hello!. . . May I speak to Mr. Harvey Craig's doctor?. . . This isProfessor Gehren of the Metropolitan University. . . Thank you, Doctor. How is he?. . . Very grave?. . . Ah, has been very grave . . . . Wholly out ofdanger?. . . What was the nature of his illness?

"When may I see him?. . . Very well. I will visit the hospital to-morrowmorning. Thank you. . . . I should have expected that you would notify meof his, presence. " intervened, then "Good-by. "

"It is most inexplicable, " declared Professor Gehren, turning to theothers. "The doctor states that Harvey was brought there at night, by aforeigner who left a large sum of money to pay for his care, andcertain suggestions for his treatment. One detail, carefully set downin writing, was that if reddish or purple dots appeared under Harvey'snails, he was to be told that Mr. Smith released him and advised hissending for his friends at once. "

"Reddish or purple dots, eh?" repeated Average Jones. "I shouldlike--er--to have talked with--er--that doctor before you cut off. "

"And I, sir, " said the professor, with the grim repression of thethinker stirred to wrath, "should like to interview this stranger. "

"Perfectly feasible, I think, " returned Average Jones. 

A long silence. 

"You don't mean that you've located him already!" cried young Mr. McIntyre. 

"He was so obliging as to save me the trouble. "

Average Jones held up the letter from which he had taken the CairnsideHospital's telephone number. "The advertisement worked to a charm. Mr. Smith gives his address in this, and intimates that I may call uponhim. "

Young Mr. McIntyre rose. 

"You're going to see him, then?"

"At once. "

"Did I understand you to imply that I am at liberty to accompany you?"inquired Professor Gehren. 

"If you care to take the risk. "

"Think there'll be excitement?" asked Bertram languidly. "I'd like to goalong. "

Average Jones nodded. "One or a dozen; I fancy it will be all the sameto Smith. "

"You think we'll find him dead. " Young Mr. McIntyre leaped to thisconclusion. "Count me in on it. "

"N-no; not dead. "

"Perhaps his friend 'Mercy' has gone back on him, then, " suggested Mr. McIntyre, unabashed. 

"Yes; I rather think that's it, " said Average Jones, in a curiousaccent. "'Mercy' has gone back on him, I believe, though I can't quiteaccurately place her as yet. Here's the taxi, " he broke off. "All aboardthat's going aboard. But it's likely to be dangerous. "

Across town and far up the East Side whizzed the car, over the bridgethat leads away from Manhattan Island to the north, and through quietstreets as little known to the average New Yorker as are Hong Kong andCaracas. In front of a frame house it stopped. On a side porch, overwhich bright roses swarmed like children clambering into a hospitablelap, sat a man with a gray face. He was tall and slender, and his hair, a dingy black, was already showing worn streaks where the color hadfaded. At Average Jones he gazed with unconcealed surprise. 

"Ah; it is you!" he exclaimed. "You, " he smiled, "are the 'Mercy' of theadvertisement?"

"Yes. "

"And these gentlemen?"

"Are my friends. "

"You will come in?"

Average Jones examined a nodding rose with an indulgent, almost apaternal, expression. 

"If you--er--think it--er--safe, " he murmured. 

"Assuredly. "

As if exacting a pledge the young man held out his hand. The older oneunhesitatingly grasped it. Average Jones turned the long fingers, whichenclosed his, back upward, and glanced at them. 

"Ah, " he said, and nodded soberly, "so, it is that. "

"Yes; it is that, " assented the other. "I perceive that you havecommunicated with Mr. Craig. How is he?"

"Out of danger. "

"That is well. A fine and manly youth. I should have sorely regretted itif--"

Professor Gehren broke in upon him. "For the peril in which you haveinvolved him, sir, you have to answer to me, his guardian. "

The foreigner raised a hand. "He was without family or ties. I toldhim the danger. He accepted it. Once he was careless--and one is notcareless twice in that work. But he was fortunate, too. I, also, was fortunate in that the task was then so far advanced that I couldcomplete it alone. I got him to the hospital at night; no matter how. For his danger and illness I have indemnified him in the sum of tenthousand dollars. Is it enough?"

Professor Gehren bowed. 

"And you, Mr. Jones; are you a detective?"

"No; merely a follower of strange trails--by taste. "

"Ah. You have set yourself to a dark one. You wish to know how TelfikBey"--his eyes narrowed and glinted--"came to his reward. Will youenter, gentlemen?"

"I know this much, " replied Average Jones as, followed by his friends, he passed through the door which their host held open. "With young Craigas an assistant, you prepared, in the loneliest part of the HackensackMeadows, some kind of poison which, I believe, can be made with safetyonly in the open air. "

The foreigner smiled and shook his head. 

"Not with safety, even then, " he said. "But go on. "

"You found that your man was coming to New York. Knowing that he wouldprobably put up at the Palatia or the Nederstrom, you reserved rooms forhim at both, and took an office across from each. As it was hot weather, you calculated upon his windows being open. You watched for him. When hecame you struck him down in his own room with the poison. "

"But how?" It was the diplomat who interrupted. 

"I think with a long blow-gun. "

"By George!" said Bertram softly. "So the spirit-wand of bamboo was ablow-gun! What led you to that, Average?"

"The spirit rappings, which the talky woman in the Bellair Streetapartment used to hear. That and the remnants of putty I found nearthe window. You see the doors opening through the whole length of theapartment gave a long range, where Mr. --er--Smith could practice. He hada sort of target on the window, and every time he blew a putty ball Mrs. Doubletongue heard the spirit. Am I right, sir?"

The host bowed. 

"The fumes, whatever they were, killed swiftly?"

"They did. Instantly; mercifully. Too mercifully. "

"How could you know it was fumes?" demanded Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre. 

"By the dead flies, the effect upon the bell-boy, and the fact thatno wound was found on the body. Then, too, there was the fulminate ofmercury shell. "

"Of what possible use was that?" asked Professor Gehren. 

"A question that I've asked myself, sir, a great many times over inthe last twenty-four hours. Perhaps Mr. Smith could answer that best. Though--er--I think the shell was blown through the blowpipe to clearthe deadly fumes from the room by its explosion, before any one elseshould suffer. Smith is, at least, not a wanton slaughterer. "

"You are right, sir, and I thank you, " said the foreigner. He drewhimself up weakly but with pride. "Gentlemen, I am not a murderer. I aman avenger. It would have gone hard with my conscience had any innocentperson met death through me. As for that Turkish dog, you shall judgefor yourself whether he did not die too easily. "

From among the papers in a tiroir against the wall he took a Frenchjournal, and read, translating fluently. The article was a bald accountof the torture, outrage and massacre of Armenian women and girls, at Adana, by the Turks. The most hideous portion of it was brieflydescriptive of the atrocities perpetrated by order of a high Turkishofficial upon a mother and two young daughters. "An Armenian prisoner, being dragged by in chains, went mad at the sight, " the correspondentstated. 

"I was that prisoner, " said the reader. "The official was Telfik Bey. Isaw my naked daughter break from the soldiers and run to him, pleadingfor pity, as he sat his horse; and I saw him strike his spur into herbare breast. My wife, the mother of my children--"

"Don't!" The protest came from the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State. 

He had risen. His smooth-skinned face was contracted, and the sweatstood beaded on his forehead. "I--I can't stand it. I've got my duty todo. This man has made a confession. "

"Your pardon, " said the foreigner. "I have lived and fed on and sleptwith that memory, ever since. On my release I left my country. Theenterprise of which I had been the head, dye-stuff manufacturing, hadinterested me in chemistry. I went to England to study further. Thence Icame to America to wait. "

"You have heard his confession, all of you, " said young Mr. McIntyre, rising. "I shall have him put under arrest pending advice fromWashington. "

"You, may save yourself the trouble, I think, Tommy, " drawled AverageJones. "Mr. Smith will never be called to account in this world for themurder--execution of Telfik Bey. "

"You saw the marks on my finger-nails, " said the foreigner. "That is thesure sign. I may live twenty-four hours; I may live twice or three timesthat period. The poison does its work, once it gets into the blood, andthere is no help. It matters nothing. My ambition is satisfied. "

"And it is because of this that you let us find you?" asked Bertram. 

"I had a curiosity to know who had so strangely traced my actions. "

"But what was the poison?" asked Professor Gehren. 

"I think Mr. Jones has more than a suspicion, " replied the doomed man, with a smile. "You will find useful references on yonder shelf, Mr. Jones. "

Moving across to the shelf, Average Jones took down a heavy volume andran quickly over the leaves. 

"Ah!" he said presently, and not noticing, in his absorption, that thehost had crossed again to the tiroir and was quietly searching in acompartment, he read aloud:

"Little is known of cyanide of cacodyl, in its action the swiftestand most deadly of existing poisons. In the '40's, Bunsen, the Germanchemist, combined oxide of cacodyl with cyanogen, a radical of prussicacid, producing cyanide of cacodyl, or diniethyl arsine cyanide. Asboth of its components are of the deadliest description, it is extremelydangerous to make. It can be made only in the open air, and not withoutthe most extreme precaution known to science. Mr. Lacelles Scott, ofEngland, nearly lost his life experimenting with it in 1904. A smallfraction of a grain gives off vapor sufficient to kill a human beinginstantly. "

"Had you known about this stuff, Average?" asked Bertram. 

"No, I'd never beard of it. But from its action and from the letteredcabinet, I judged that--"

"This is all very well, " broke in Mr. Assistant Secretary Thomas ColvinMcIntyre, "but I want this man arrested. How can we know that he isn'tshamming and may not escape us, after all?"

"By this, " retorted their host. He held aloft a small glass vial, lead-seated, and staggered weakly to the door. 

"Stop him!" said Average Jones sharply. 

The door closed on the words. There was a heavy fall without, followedby the light tinkle of glass. 

Average Jones, who had half crossed the room in a leap, turned to hisfriends, warning them back. 

"Too late. We can't go out yet. Wait for the fumes to dissipate. "

They stood, the four men, rigid. Presently Average Jones, opening a rearwindow, leaped to the ground, followed by the others, and came aroundthe corner of the porch. The dead man lay with peaceful face. ProfessorGehren uncovered. 

"God forgive him, " he said. "Who shall say that he was not right?"

"Not I, " said the young assistant secretary in awed tones. "I'm glad heescaped. But what am I to do? Here we are with a dead body on our hands, and a state secret to be kept from the prying police. "

Average Jones stood thinking for a moment, then he entered the room andcalled up the coroner's office on the telephone. 

"Listen, you men, " he said to his companions. Then, to the official whoanswered: "There's a suicide at 428 Oliver Avenue, the Bronx. Four ofus witnessed it. We had come to keep an appointment with the man inconnection with a discovery he claimed in metallurgy, and found himdying. Yes; we will wait here. Good-by. "

Returning to the porch again, he cleared away the fragments of glass, aided by Bertram. To one of these clung a shred of paper. For all hislanguid self-control the club dilettante shivered a little as he thrustat it with a stick. 

"Look, Average, it's the 'Mercy' sign again. What a hideous travesty!"

Average Jones shook his bead. 

"It isn't 'Mercy, ' Bert. It's the label that he attached, forprecaution, to everything that had to do with his deadly stuff. The formula for cyanide of cacodyl is 'Me-2CY. ' It was the scrawlyhandwriting that misled; that's all. "

"So I was right when I suggested that his 'Mercy' had gone back on him, "said Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, with a semi-hysterical giggle. 

Average Jones looked from the peaceful face of the dead to the label, fluttering in the light breeze. 

"No, " he said gravely. "You were wrong. It was his friend to the last. "

CHAPTER VI. BLUE FIRES

"Cabs for comfort; cars for company, " was an apothegm which AverageJones had evolved from experience. A professed student of life, hemaintained, must keep in touch with life at every feasible angle. Noexperience should come amiss to a detective; he should be a pundit ofall knowledge. A detective he now frankly considered himself; and thereal drudgery of his unique profession of Ad-Visor was supportable onlybecause of the compensating thrill of the occasional chase, the radianceof the Adventure of Life glinting from time to time across his path. 

There were few places, Average Jones held, where human nature in therough can be studied to better advantage than in the stifling tunnels ofthe subway or the close-packed sardine boxes of the metropolitan surfacelines. It was in pursuance of this theory that he encountered theWesterner, on Third avenue car. By custom, Average Jones picked out themost interesting or unusual human being in any assembly where he foundhimself, for study and analysis. This man was peculiar in that he alonewas not perspiring in the sodden August humidity. The clear-browned skinand the rangy strength of the figure gave him a certain distinction. Heheld in his sinewy hands a doubly folded newspaper. Presently it slippedfrom his hold to the seat beside him. He stared at the window oppositewith harassed and unseeing eyes. Abruptly he rose and went out on theplatform. Average Jones picked up the paper. In the middle of the columnto which it was folded was a marked advertisement:

 ARE you in an embarrassing position? Anything, anywhere, any time, regardless of nature or location. Everybody's friend. Consultation at all hours. Suite 152, Owl Building, Brooklyn. 

The car was nearing Brooklyn Bridge. Average Jones saw his man droplightly off. He followed and at the bridge entrance caught him up. 

"You've left your paper, " he said. 

The stranger whirled quickly. "Right, " he said. "Thanks. Perhaps you cantell me where the Owl Building is. "

"Are you going there?"

"Yes. "

"I wouldn't. "

A slight wrinkle of surprise appeared on the man's tanned forehead. 

"Perhaps you wouldn't, " he returned coolly. 

"In other words, 'mind your business, "' said Average Jones, with asmile. 

"Something of that sort, " admitted the stranger. 

"Nevertheless, I wouldn't consult with Everbody's Friend over in the OwlBuilding. "

"Er--because--er--if I may speak plainly, " drawled Average Jones, "Iwouldn't risk a woman's name with a gang of blackmailers. "

"You've got your nerve, " retorted the stranger. The keen eyes, flattening almost to slits, fixed on the impassive face of the other. 

"Well, I'll go you, " he decided, after a moment. His glance swept therange of vision and settled upon a rathskeller sign. "Come over therewhere we can talk. "

They crossed the grilling roadway, and, being wise in the heat, ordered"soft" drinks. 

"Now, " said the stranger, "you've declared in on my game. Make good. What's your interest?"

"None, personally. I like your looks, that's all, " replied the otherfrankly. "And I don't like to see you run into that spider's web. "

"You know them?"

"Twice in the last year I've made 'em change their place of business. "

"But you don't know me. And you spoke of a woman. "

"I've been studying you on the car, " explained Average Jones. "You'rehard as nails; yet your nerves are on edge. It isn't illness, so it mustbe trouble. On your watch-chain you've got a solitaire diamond ring. Not for ornament; you aren't that sort of a dresser. It's there for, convenience until you can find a place to put it. When a deeply troubledman wears an engagement ring on his watch chain it's a fair inferencethat there's been an obstruction in the course of true love. Unless I'mmistaken, you, being a stranger newly come to town, were going to takeyour case to those man-eating sharks?"

"How do you know I've just come to town?"

"When you looked at your watch I noticed it was three hours slow. Thatmust mean the Pacific coast, or near it. Therefore you've just got infrom the Far West and haven't thought to rectify your time. At a ventureI'd say you were a mining man from down around the Ray-Kelvin copperdistrict in Arizona. That peculiar, translucent copper silicate in yourscarf-pin comes from those mines. "

"The Blue Fire? I wish it had stayed there, all of it! Anything else?"

"Yes, " returned Average Jones, warming to the game. "You're an Easterncollege man, I think. Anyway, your father or some older member of yourfamily graduated from one of the older colleges. "

"What's the answer?"

"The gold of your Phi Beta Kappa key is a different color from yourwatch-chain. It's the old metal, antedating the California gold. Didyour father graduate some time in the latter forties or early fifties?"

"Hamilton, '51. I'm '89. Name, Kirby. "

A gleam of pleasure appeared in Average Jones keen eyes. "That's rathera coincidence, " he said. "Two of us from the Old Hill. I'm Jones of '04. Had a cousin in your class, Carl Van Reypen. "

They plunged into the intimate community of interest which is thepeculiar heritage and asset of the small, close-knit old college. Presently, however, Kirby's forehead wrinkled again. He sat silent, communing with himself. At length he lifted his head like one who hastaken a resolution. 

"You made a good guess at a woman in the case, " he, said. "And you callthis a coincidence? She'd say it was a case of intuition. She's verystrong on intuition and superstition generally. " There was a mixtureof tenderness and bitterness in his tone. "Chance brought thatadvertisement to her eyes. A hat-pin she'd dropped stuck through it, or something of the sort. Enough for her. Nothing would do but thatI should chase over to see the Owl Building bunch. At that, maybe herhunch was right. It's brought me up against you. Perhaps you can helpme. What are you? A sort of detective?"

"Only on the side. " Average Jones drew a card from his pocket, andtendered it:

 A. JONES, AD-VISOR

 Advice upon all matters connected with Advertising Astor Court Temple 2 to 5 P. M. 

"Ad-Visor, eh?" repeated the other. "Well, there's going to be anadvertisement in the Evening Truth to-day, by me. Here's a proof of it. "

Average Jones took the slip and read it. 

 LOST--Necklace of curious blue stones from Hotel Denton, night of August 6. Reward greater than value of stones for return to hotel. No questions asked. 

"Reward greater than value of stones, " commented Average Jones. "There'sa sentimental interest, then?"

"Will you take the case?" returned Kirby abruptly. 

"At least I'll look into it, " replied Average Jones. 

"Come to the hotel, then, and lunch with me, and I'll open up the wholething. "

Across a luncheon-table, at the quiet, old-fashioned Hotel Denton, Kirbyunburdened himself. 

"You know all that's necessary about me. The--the other party in thematter is Mrs. Hale. She's a young widow. We've been engaged forsix months; were to be married in a fortnight. Now she insists on apostponement. That's where I want your help. "

Average Jones moved uneasily in his chair. "Really, Mr. Kirby, lovers'quarrels aren't in my line. "

"There's been no quarrel. We're as much engaged now as ever, in spiteof the return of the ring. It's only her infern--her deep-rootedsuperstition that's caused this trouble. One can't blame her; her fatherand mother were both killed in an accident after some sort of 'ghostlywarning. ' The first thing I gave her, after our engagement, was anecklace of these stones"--he tapped his scarf pin--"that I'd selected, one by one, myself. They're beautiful, as you see, but they're notparticularly valuable; only semiprecious. The devil of it is thatthey're the subject of an Indian legend. The Indians and Mexicans callthem "blue fires, " and say they have the power to bind and loose inlove. Edna has been out in that country; she's naturally high strung andresponsive to that sort of thing, as I told you, and she fairly soakedin all that nonsense. To make it worse, when I sent them to her I wrotethat--that--" a dull red surged up under the tan skin--"that as long asthe fire in the stones burned blue for her my heart would be all hers. Now the necklace is gone. You can imagine the effect on a woman of thattemperament. And you can see the result. " He pointed with a face ofmisery to the solitaire on his watch-chain. "She insisted on givingthis back. Says that a woman as careless as she proved herself can't betrusted with jewelry. And she's hysterically sure that misfortunewill follow us for ever if we're married without recovering the foolnecklace. So she's begged a postponement. "

"Details, " said Average Jones crisply. 

"She's here at this hotel. Has a small suite on the third floor. Camedown from her home in central New York to meet my mother, whom she hadnever seen. Mother's here, too, on the same floor. Night before lastMrs. Hale thought she heard a noise in her outer room. She made alook-see, but found nothing. In the morning when she got up, about ten(she's a late riser) the necklace was gone. "

"Where had it been left?"

"On a stand in her sitting-room. "

"Anything else taken?"

"That's the strange part of it. Her purse, with over a hundred dollarsin it, which lay under the necklace, wasn't touched. "

"Does she usually leave valuables around in that casual way?"

"Well, you see, she's always stayed at the Denton and she felt perfectlysecure here. "

"Any other thefts in the hotel?"

"Not that I can discover. But one of the guests on the same floor withMrs. Hale saw a fellow acting queerly that same night. There he sits, yonder, at that table. I'll ask him to come over. "

The guest, an elderly man, already interested in the case, was willingenough to tell all he knew. 

"I was awakened by some one fumbling at my door and making a clinkingnoise, " he explained. "I called out. Nobody answered. Almost immediatelyI heard a noise across the hall. I opened my door. A man was fussing atthe keyhole of the room opposite. He was very clumsy. I said, 'is thatyour room?' He didn't even look at me. In a moment he started down thehallway. He walked very fast, and I could hear him muttering to himself. He seemed to be carrying something in front of him with both hands. Itwas his keys, I suppose. Anyway I could hear it clink. At the end ofthe hall he stopped, turned to the door at the left and fumbled at thekeyhole for quite a while. I could bear his keys clink again. This time, I suppose, he had the right room, for be unlocked it and went in. Ilistened for fifteen or twenty minutes. There was nothing further. "

Average Jones looked at Kirby with lifted brows of inquiry. Kirbynodded, indicating that the end room was Mrs. Hales'. 

"How was the man dressed?" asked Average Jones. 

"Grayish dressing-gown and bed-slippers. He was tall and had gray hair. "

"Many thanks. Now, Mr. Kirby, will you take me to see Mrs. Hale?"

The young widow received them in her sitting-room. She was of theslender, big-eyed, sensitive type of womanhood; her piquant face marredby the evidences of sleeplessness and tears. To Average Jones she gaveher confidence at once. People usually did. 

"I felt sure the advertisement would bring us help, " she said wistfully. "Now, I feel surer than ever. "

"Faith helps the worst case, " said the young man, smiling. "Mr. Kirbytells me that the intruder awakened you. "

"Yes; and I'm a very heavy sleeper. Still I can't say positively thatanything definite roused me; it was rather an impression of some one'sbeing about. I came out of my bedroom and looked around the outer room, but there was nobody there. "

"You didn't think to look for the necklace?"

"No, " she said with a little gasp; "if I only had!"

"And--er--you didn't happen to hear a clinking noise, did you?"

"No. "

"After he'd got into the room he'd put the key up, wouldn't he?"suggested Kirby. 

"You're assuming that he had a key. "

"Of course he had a key. The guest across the ball saw him trying it onthe other doors and heard it clink against the lock. "

"If he had a key to this room why did he try it on several other doorsfirst?" propounded Average Jones. "As for the clinking noise, in whichI'm a good deal interested--may I look at your key, Mrs. Hale?"

She handed it to him. He tried it on the lock, outside, jabbing at themetal setting. The resultant sound was dull and wooden. "Not much of theclink which our friend describes as having heard, is it?" he remarked. 

"Then how could he get into my room?" cried Mrs. Hale. 

"Are you sure your door was locked?"

"Certain. As soon as I missed the necklace I looked at the catch. "

"That was in the morning. But the night before?"

"I always slip the spring. And I know I did this time because it hadbeen left unsprung so that Mr. Kirby's mother could come in and out ofmy sitting-room, and I remember springing it when she left for bed. "

"Sometimes these locks don't work. " Slipping the catch back, AverageJones pressed the lever down. There was a click, but the ward failed toslip. At the second attempt the lock worked. But repeated trials provedthat more than half the time the door did not lock. 

"So, " observed Average Jones, "I think we may dismiss the key theory. "

"But the locked door this morning?" cried Mrs. Hale. 

"The intruder may have done that as he left. "

"I don't see why, " protested Kirby, in a tone which indicated a waningfaith in Jones. 

"By way of confusing the trail. Possibly he hoped to suggest that he'descaped by the fire-escape. Presumably he was on the balcony when Mrs. Hale came out into this room. "

As he spoke Average Jones laid a hand on the heavy net curtains whichhung before the balcony window. Instead of parting them, however, hestood with upturned eyes. 

"Was that curtain torn before yesterday?" he asked Mrs. Hale. 

"I hardly think so. The hotel people are very, careful in the up-keep ofthe rooms. "

Jones mounted a chair with scant respect for the upholstery, andexamined the damaged drapery. Descending, he tugged tentatively at theother curtain, first with his right hand, then with his left; thenwith both. The fabric gave a little at the last test. Jones disappearedthrough the window. 

When he returned, after five minutes, he held in his hand some scrapingsof the rusted iron which formed the balcony railing. 

"You're a mining man, Mr. Kirby, " he said. "Would you say that assayedanything?"

Kirby examined the glinting particles. "Gold, " he said decisively. 

"Ah, then the necklace rubbed with some violence against the railing. Now, Mrs. Hale, how long were you awake?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes. I remember that a continuous rattling of wagonsbelow kept up for a little while. And I heard one of the drivers callout something about taking the air. "

"Er--really!" Average Jones became suddenly absorbed in his seal ring. He turned it around five accurate times and turned it back an equalnumber of revolutions. "Did he--er--get any answer?"

"Not that I heard. "

The young man pondered, then drew a chair up to, Mrs. Hale's escritoire, and, with an abrupt "excuse me, " helped himself to pen, ink and paper. 

"There!" he said, after five minutes' work. "That'll do for a starter. You see, " he added, handing the product of his toil to Mrs. Hale, "thisstreet happens to be the regular cross-town route for the milk thatcomes over by one of the minor ferries. If you heard a number of wagonspassing in the early morning they were the milk-vans. Hence this. "

Mrs. Hale read:

 "MILK-DRIVERS, ATTENTION--Delaware Central mid-town route. Who talked to man outside hotel early morning of August 7? Twenty dollars to right man. Apply personally to Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple, New York. "

"For the coming issue of the Milk-Dealers' Journal, " explained itsauthor. "Now, Mr. Kirby, I want you to find out for me--Mrs. Hale canhelp you, since she has known the hotel people for years--the names ofall those who gave up rooms on this floor, or the floors above or below, yesterday morning, and ask whether they are known to the hotel people. "

"You think the thief is still in the hotel?" cried Mrs. Hale. 

"Hardly. But I think I see smoke from your blue fires. To make out thefigure through the smoke is not--" Average Jones broke off, shaking hishead. He was still shaking his head when he left the hotel. 

It took three days for the milk-journal advertisement to work. On theafternoon of August tenth, a lank, husky-voiced teamster called at theoffice of the Ad-Visor and was passed in ahead of the waiting line. 

"I'm after that twenty, " he declared. 

"Earn it, " said Average Jones with equal brevity. 

"Hotel Denton. Guy on the third floor balcony--"

"Right so far. "

"Leanin' on the rail as if he was sick. I give him a hello. 'Takin' anip of night air, Bill?' I says. He didn't say nothin'. "

"Did he do anything?"

"Kinder fanned himself an' jerked his head back over his shoulder. Meanin' it was too hot to sleep inside, I reckon. It sure was hot!"

"Fanned himself? How?"

"Like this. " The visitor raised his hands awkwardly, cupped them, anddrew them toward his face. 

"Er--with both hands?"

"Did you see him go in?"

"Nope. "

"Here's your twenty, " said Average Jones. "You're long on sense andshort on words. I wish there were more like you. "

"Thanks. Thanks again, " said the teamster, and went out. 

Meantime Kirby had sent his list of the guests who had given up theirrooms on August seventh:

George M. Weaver, Jr. , Utica, N. Y. , well known to hotel people andvouched for by them. 

Walker Parker, New Orleans, ditto. 

Mr. And Mrs. Charles Hull; quiet elderly people; first visit to hotel. 

Henry M. Gillespie, Locke, N. Y. Middle-aged man; new guest. 

C. F. Willard, Chicago; been going to hotel for ten years; vouched forby hotel people. 

Armed with the list, Average Jones went to the Hotel Denton and spent abusy morning. 

"I've had a little talk with the hotel servants, " said he to Kirby, whenthe latter called to make inquiries. "Mr. Henry M. Gillespie, of Locke, New York, had room 168. It's on the same floor with Mrs. Hale's suite, at the farther end of the hall. He had only one piece of luggage, asuitcase marked H. M. G. That information I got from the porter. He lefthis room in perfect order except for one thing: one of the knobs onthe headboard of the old fashioned bed was broken off short. He didn'tmention the matter to the hotel people. "

"What do you make of that?"

"It was a stout knob. Only a considerable effort of strength exertedin a peculiar way would have broken it as it was broken. There wassomething unusual going on in room 168, all right. "

"Then you think Henry M. Gillespie, of Locke, New York, is our man. "

"No, " said Average Jones. 

The Westerner's square jaw fell. "Why not?"

"Because there's no such person as Henry M. Gillespie, of Locke, NewYork. I've just sent there and found out. "

Three stones of the fire-blue necklace returned on the current ofadvertised appeal. One was brought in by the night bartender of a"sporting" club. He had bought it from a man who had picked it up in agutter; just where, the finder couldn't remember. For the second a SouthBrooklyn pawnbroker demanded (and received) an exorbitant reward. Aflorist in Greenwich, Connecticut, contributed the last. With thatpatient attention to detail which is the A. B. C. Of detective work, Average Jones traced down these apparently incongruous wanderings of thestones and then followed them all, back to Mrs. Hale's fire-escape. 

The bartender's stone offered no difficulties. The setting which thepawnbroker brought in had been found on the city refuse heap by ascavenger. It had fallen through a grating into the hotel cellar, andhad been swept out with the rubbish to go to the municipal "dump. " Theapparent mystery of the florist was lucid when Jones found that thehotel exchanged its shop-worn plants with the Greenwich Floral Company. His roaming eye, keen for every detail, had noticed a row of tubbedazaleas within the ground enclosure of the Denton. Recalling this tomind, it was easy for the Ad-Visor to surmise that the gem had droppedfrom the fire-escape into a tub, which was, shortly after, shippedto the florist. Thus it was apparent that the three jewels had beenstripped from the necklace by forcible contact with the iron rail of thefire-escape at the point where Average Jones had found the "color" ofprecious metal. The stones were identified by Kirby, from a peculiarityin the setting, as the end three, nearest the clasp at the back; apoint which Jones carefully noted. But there the trail ended. No morefire-blue stones came in. 

For three weeks Average Jones issued advertisements like commands. Theadvertisements would, perhaps, have struck the formal-minded Kirby asevidences of a wavering intellect. Indeed, they present a curious andincongruous appearance upon the page of Average Jones' scrapbook, wherethey now mark a successful conclusion. The first reads as follows:

 OH, YOU HOTEL MEN! Come through with the dope on H. M. G. What's he done to your place? Put a stamp on it and we'll swap dates on his past performances. A. Jones, Astor Court Temple, New York City. 

This was spread abroad through the medium of Mine Host's Weekly andother organs of the hotel trade. 

It was followed by this, of a somewhat later date:

 WANTED-Slippery Sams, Human Eels, Fetter Kings etc Liberal reward to artist who sold Second-hand amateur, with instructions for use. Send full details, time and place to A. Jones, Court Temple, New York City. 

Variety, the Clipper and the Billboard scattered the appeal broadcastthroughout "the profession. " Thousands read it, and one answered it. Andwithin a few days after receiving that answer Jones wired to Kirby:

"Probably found. Bring Mrs. Hale to-morrow at 11. Answer. A. JONES. "

Kirby answered. He also telegraphed voluminously to his ex-fiancee, whohad returned to her home, and who replied that she would leave by thenight train. Some minutes before the hour the pair were at AverageJones' office. Kirby fairly pranced with impatience while they were keptwaiting in a side room. The only other occupant was a man with a largeblack dress-suit case, who sat at the window in a slump of dejection. Heraised his head for a moment when they were summoned and let it sag downagain as they left. 

Average Jones greeted his guests cordially. Their first questions to himwere significant of the masculine and feminine differences in point ofview. 

"Have you got the necklace?" cried Mrs. Hale. 

"Have you got the thief?" queried Kirby. 

"I haven't got the necklace and I haven't got the thief, " announcedAverage Jones; "but I think I've got the man who's got the necklace. "

"Did the thief hand it over to him?" demanded Kirby. 

"Are you conversant with the Baconian system of thought, which Old Chipsused to preach to us at Hamilton?" countered Average Jones. 

"Forgotten it if I ever knew it, " returned Kirby. 

"So I infer from your repeated use of the word 'thief. ' Bacon'sprinciple--an admirable principle in detective work--is that we shouldlearn from things and not from the names of things. You are deludingyourself with a name. Because the law, which is always rigid andsometimes stupid, says that a man who takes that which does not belongto him is a thief, you've got your mind fixed on the name 'thief, ' andthe idea of theft. If I had gone off on that tack I shouldn't have theinteresting privilege of introducing to you Mr. Harvey M. Greene, whonow sits in the outer room. "

"H. M. G. , " said Kirby quickly. "Is it possible that that decent-lookingold boy out there is the man who stole--"

"It is not, " interrupted Average Jones with emphasis, "and I shall askyou, whatever may occur, to guard your speech from offensive expressionsof that sort while he is here. "

"All right, if you say so, " acquiesced the other. "But do you mindtelling me how you figure out a man traveling under an alias and helpinghimself to other people's property on any other basis than that he's athief?"

"A, B, C, " replied Average Jones; "as thus: A--Thieves don't wanderabout in dressing-gowns. B--Nor take necklaces and leave purses. C--Nor strip gems violently apart and scatter them like largess fromfire-escapes. The rest of the alphabet I postpone. Now for Mr. Greene. "

The man from the outer room entered and nervously acknowledged hisintroduction to the others. 

"Mr. Greene, " explained Jones, "has kindly consented to help clear upthe events of the night of August sixth at the Hotel Denton and"--hepaused for a moment and shifted his gaze to the newcomer's narrowshoes--"and--er--the loss of--er--Mrs. Hale's jeweled necklace. "

The boots retracted sharply, as under the impulse of some suddenemotion; startled surprise, for example. "What?" cried Greene, inobvious amazement. "I don't know anything about a necklace. "

A twinkle of satisfaction appeared at the corners of Average Jones'eyes. 

"That also is possible, " he admitted. "If you'll permit the form of anexamination; when you came to the Hotel Denton on August sixth, did youcarry the same suitcase you now have with you, and similarly packed?"

"Ye-es. As nearly as possible. "

"Thank you. You were registered under the name of Henry M. Gillespie?"

The other's voice was low and strained as he replied in the affirmative. 

"For good reasons of your own?"

"Yes. "

"For which same reasons you left the hotel quite early on the followingmorning?"

"Yes. "

"Your business compels you to travel a great deal?"

"Yes. "

"Do you often register under an alias?"

"Yes, " returned the other, his face twitching. 

"But not always?"

"No. "

"In a large city and a strange hotel, for example, you'd take any namewhich would correspond to the initials, H. M. G. , on your dress-suitcase. But in a small town where you were known, you'd be obliged toregister under your real name of Harvey M. Greene. It was that necessitywhich enabled me to find you. "

"I'd like to know how you did it, " said the other gloomily. 

From the left-hand drawer of his desk Jones produced a piece of netting, with hooks along one end. 

"Do you recognize the material, Mrs. Hale, " he asked. 

"Why, it's the same stuff as the Hotel Denton curtains, isn't it?" sheasked. 

"Yes, " said Average Jones, attaching it to the curtain rod at the sidedoor. "Now, will you jerk that violently with one hand?"

"It will tear loose, won't it?" she asked. 

"That's just what it will do. Try it. "

The fabric ripped from the hooks as she jerked. 

"You remember, " said Jones, "that your curtain was torn partly across, and not ripped from the hook at all. Now see. "

He caught the netting in both hands and tautened it sharply. It began topart. 

"Awkward, " he said, "yet it's the only way it could have been done. Now, here's a bedpost, exactly like the one in room 168, occupied by Mr. Greene at the Denton. Kirby, you're a powerful man. Can you break thatknob off with one hand?"

He wedged the post firmly in a chair for the trial. The bedpostresisted. 

"Could you do it with both hands?" he asked. 

"Probably, if I could get a hold. But there isn't surface enough for agood hold. "

"No, there isn't. But now. " Jones coiled a rope around the post andhanded the end to Kirby. He pulled sharply. The knob snapped and rolledon the floor. 

"Q. E. D. , " said Kirby. "But it doesn't mean anything to me. "

"Doesn't it? Let me recall some other evidence. The guest who saw Mr. Greene in the hallway thought he was carrying something in both hands. The milk driver who hailed him on the balcony noticed that he gesturedawkwardly with both hands. In what circumstances would a man use bothhands for action normally performed with one?"

"Too much drink, " hazarded Kirby, looking dubiously at Greene, who hadbeen following Jones' discourse with absorbed attention. 

"Possibly. But it wouldn't fit this case. "

"Physical weakness, " suggested Mrs. Hale. 

"Rather a shrewd suggestion. But no weakling broke off that bedpost inHenry M. Gillespie's room. I assumed the theory that the phenomena ofthat night were symptomatic rather than accidental. Therefore, I set outto find in what other places the mysterious H. M. G. Had performed. "

"How did you know my initials really were H. M. G. ?" asked Mr. Greene. 

"The porter at the Denton had seen them 'Henry M. Gillespie's' suitcase. So I sent out loudly printed call to all hotel clerks for informationabout a troublesome H. M. G. "

He handed the "OH, YOU HOTEL MEN" advertisement to the little group. 

"Plenty of replies came. You have, if I may say it without offense, Mr. Greene, an unfortunate reputation among hotel proprietors. Small wonderthat you use an alias. From the Hotel Carpathia in Boston I got aresponse more valuable than I had dared to hope. An H. M. G. Guest--H. Morton Garson, of Pillston, Pennsylvania (Mr. Greene nodded)--hadwrecked his room and left behind him this souvenir. "

Leaning over, Jones pulled, clinking from the scrap-basket, a fine steelchain. It was endless and some twelve feet in total length, and had twosmall loops, about a foot apart. Mrs. Hale and Kirby stared at it inspeechless surprise. 

"Yes, that is mine, " said Mr. Greene with composure. "I left it becauseit had ceased to be serviceable to me. "

"Ah! That's very interesting, " said Average Jones with a keen glance. "Of course when I examined it and found no locks, I guessed that itwas a trick chain, and that there were invisible springs in the wristloops. "

"But why should any one chain Mr. Greene to his bed with a trick chain?"questioned Mrs. Hale, whose mind had been working swiftly. 

"He chained himself, " explained Jones, "for excellent reasons. As thereis no regular trade in these things, I figured that he probably boughtit from some juggler whose performance had given him the idea. So, "continued Jones, producing a specimen of his advertisements in thetheatrical publications, "I set out to find what professional had solda 'prop', to an amateur. I found the sale had been made at Marsfield, Ohio, late in November of last year, by a 'Slippery Sam, ' termed 'TheElusive Edwardes. ' On November twenty-eighth of last year Mr. Harvey M. Greene, of Richmond, Virginia, was registered at the principal, in factthe only decent hotel, at Barsfield. I wrote to him and here he is. "

"Yes; but where is my necklace?" cried Mrs. Hale. 

"On my word of honor, madam, I know nothing of your necklace, " assertedGreene, with a painful contraction of his features. "If this gentlemancan throw any more light--"

"I think I can, " said Average Jones. "Do you remember anything of thatnight's events after you broke off the bedpost and left your room--themeeting with a guest who questioned you in the hall, for example?"

"Nothing. Not a thing until I awoke and found myself on thefire-escape. "

"Awoke?" cried Kirby. "Were you asleep all the time?"

"Certainly. I'm a confirmed sleep-walker worst type. That's why I gounder an alias. That's why I got the trick handcuff chain and chainedmyself up with it, until I found it drove me fighting', crazy in mysleep when I couldn't break away. That's why I slept in my dressing-gownthat night at the Denton. There was a red light in the hall outsideand any light, particularly a colored one, is likely to set me going. I probably dreamed I was escaping from a locomotive--that's a commondelusion of mine--and sought refuge in the first door that was open. "

"Wait a minute, " said Average Jones. "You--er--say that youare--er--peculiarly susceptible to--er--colored light. "

"Yes. "

"Mrs. Hale, was the table on which the necklace lay in line with anylight outside?"

"I think probably with the direct ray of an electric globe shiningthrough the farther window. "

"Then, Mr. Greene, " said, Average Jones, "the glint of the fire-bluestones undoubtedly caught your eye. You seized on the necklace andcarried it out on the fire-escape balcony, where the cool air or themilk-driver's hail awakened you. Have you no recollection of seeing sucha thing?"

"Not the faintest, unhappily. "

"Then he must have dropped it to the ground below, " said Kirby. 

"I don't think so, " controverted Jones slowly. "Mr. Greene must havebeen clinging to it tenaciously when it swung and caught against therailing, stripping off the three end stones. If the whole necklace haddropped it would have broken up fine, and more than three stones wouldhave returned to us in reply to the advertisements. And in that case, too, the chances against the end stones alone returning, out of allthe thirty-six, are too unlikely to be considered. No, the fire-bluenecklace never fell to the ground. "

"It certainly didn't remain on the balcony, " said Kirby. "It would havebeen discovered there. "

"Quite so, " assented Average Jones. "We're getting at it by the processof exclusion. The necklace didn't fall. It didn't stay. Therefore?"--helooked inquiringly at Mrs. Hale. 

"It returned, " she said quickly. 

"With Mr. Greene, " added Average Jones. 

"I tell you, " cried that gentleman vehemently, "I haven't set eyes onthe wretched thing. "

"Agreed, " returned Average Jones; "which doesn't at all affect the pointI wish to make. You may recall, Mr. Greene, that in my message I askedyou to pack your suitcase exactly as it was when you left the hotel withit on the morning of August seventh. "

"I've done so with the exception of the conjurer's chain, of course. "

"Including the dressing-gown you had on, that night, I assume. Have youworn it since?"

"No. It hung in my closet until yesterday, when I folded it to pack. Yousee, I--I've had to give up the road on account of my unhappy failing. "

"Then permit me. " Average Jones stooped to, the dress-suit case, drewout the garment and thrust his hand into its one pocket. He turned toMrs. Hale. 

"Would you--er--mind--er--leaning over a bit?" he said. 

She bent her dainty head, then gave a startled cry of delight as theyoung man, with a swift motion, looped over her shoulders a chain ofliving blue fires which gleamed and glinted in the sunlight. 

"They were there all the time, " she exclaimed; "and you knew it. "

"Guessed it, " he corrected, "by figuring out that they couldn't wellbe elsewhere--unless on the untenable hypothesis that our friend, Mr. Greene here, was a thief. "

"Which only goes to prove, " said Kirby soberly, "that evidence may be amighty deceptive accuser. "

"Which only goes to prove, " amended Average Jones, "that there's nofire, even the bluest, without traceable smoke. "'

CHAPTER VII. PIN-PRICKS

"The thing is a fake, " declared Bertram. He slumped heavily into achair, and scowled at Average Jones' well-littered desk, whereon he hadjust tossed a sheet of paper. His usually impeccable hair was tousled. His trousers evinced a distinct tendency to bag at the knees, and hiscoat was undeniably wrinkled. That the elegant and flawless dilettanteof the Cosmic Club should have come forth, at eleven o'clock of amorning, in such a state of comparative disreputability, argued anupheaval of mind little short of phenomenal. 

"A fake, " he reiterated. "I've spent a night of pseudo-intellectual riotand ruin over it. You've almost destroyed a young and innocent mind withyour infernal palimpsest, Average. "

"You would have it, " returned Average Jones with a smile. "And I seem torecall a lofty intimation on your part that there never was a cipher sotough but what you could rope, throw, bind, and tie a pink ribbon on itstail in record time. "

"Cipher, yes, " returned the other bitterly. "That thing isn't a cipher. It's an alphabetical riot. Maybe, " he added hopefully, "there was somemistake in my copy?"

"Look for yourself, " said Average Jones, handing him the original. 

It was a singular document, this problem in letters which had come tolight up the gloom of a November day for Average Jones; a stiffishsheet of paper, ornamented on one side with color prints of alluring"spinners, " and on the other inscribed with an appeal, in print. Its original vehicle was an envelope, bearing a one-cent stamp, andaddressed in typewriting:

Mr. William H. Robinson, The Caronia, Broadway and Evenside Ave. , NewYork City. 

The advertisement on the reverse of the sheet ran as follows:

 ANGLERS--When you are looking for "Baits That Catch Fish, " do you see these spinners in the store where you buy tackle? You will find here twelve baits, every one of which has a record and has literally caught tons of fish. We call them "The 12 Surety Baits. " We want you to try them for casting and trolling these next two months, because all varieties of bass are particularly savage in striking these baits late in the season. 

 DEALERS--You want your customers to have these 12 Shoemaker "Surety Baits" that catch fish. This case will sell itself empty over and over again, for every bait is a record-breaker and they catch fish. We want you to put in one of these cases so that the anglers will not be disappointed and have to wait for baits to be ordered. It will be furnished FREE, charges prepaid, with your order for the dozen bait it contains. 

The peculiar feature of the communication was that it was profuselybe-pimpled with tiny projections, evidently made by thrusting a pinin from the side which bore the illustrations. The perforations wereliberally scattered. Most, though not all of them, transfixed certainletters. Accepting this as indicative, Bertram had copied out all theletters thus distinguished, with the following cryptic result:

b-n-o-k-n-o-a-h-i (doubtful) i (doubtful) d-o-o-u-t-s-e-h-wh-e-w-a-l-e-w-f-i-h-i-e-l-y-a-n-u-t-t-m-a-m (doubtful) g-e-x-c-s(doubtful) s-e M-e-p-c (two punctures) t-y-w-u-s-o-m-e-r-s h-a-s 1S-k-t-s-a-s-e-l-e-v-a-h (twice) W-y-o-u (doubtful) h-c-s-e-v-t-l-t-f-r(perforated twice) c-a-o-u-c-e-o-c (doubtful) m-t (perforated twice)n-o-h-a-e-f-o-u-w-o-r-i-t-h-i-r-e-d-w-l-l-b (Perforated three times)f-u-h-g-e-p-d-h-o-d- (doubtful) e-f-h-g-b-t-n-t. 

"Yes, the copy's all right, " growled Bertram. "Tell me again how youcame by it. "

"Robinson came here twice and missed me. Yesterday I got the note fromhim which you've seen, with the enclosure which has so threatened yourreason. You know the rest. Perhaps you'd have done well to study thenote for clues to the other document. "

 Something in his friend's tone made Bertram glance up suspiciously. "Let me see the note, " he demanded. 

Average Jones handed it to him. There was no stamp on it; it had beenleft by the writer. It was addressed, in rather scrawly chirography, to"A. Jones, Ad-Visor, " and read:

 THE CARONIA, Nov. 18. MR. A. JONES, Astor Court Temple: I have tried unsuccessfully to seeyou twice. Enclosed you will find the reason. Please read through itcarefully. Then I am sure you will see and help me. Money is no object. I will call to-morrow at noon. 

Respectfully, WILLIAM H. ROBINSON. 

"Well, I see nothing out of the ordinary in that, " observed Bertram. 

"Nothing?" inquired Average Jones. 

Bertram read the message again. "Of course the man is rattled. That'sobvious in his handwriting. Also, he has inverted one sentence inhis haste and said 'read through it, ' instead, of 'read it through. 'Otherwise, it's ordinary enough. "

"It must be vanity that keeps you from eyeglasses, Bert, " Average Jonesobserved with a sigh. "Well, I'm afraid I set you on the wrong track, myself!"

Bertram lifted an eyebrow with an effort. "Meaning, I suppose, thatyou're on the tight and have solved the cipher. "

"Cipher be jiggered. You were right in your opening remark. There isn'tany cipher. If you read Mr. Robinson's note correctly, and if you'd hadthe advantage of working on the original of the advertisement as I have, you'd undoubtedly have noticed at once--"

"Thank you, " murmured Bertram. 

"--that fully one-third of the pin-pricks don't touch any letters atall. "

"Then we should have taken the letters which lie between the holes?"

"No. The letters don't count. It's the punctures. Force your eyes toconsider those alone, and you will see that the holes themselves formletters and words. Read through it carefully, as Robins directed. "

He held the paper up to the light. Bertram made out in stragglingcharacters, formed in skeleton the perforations, this legend:

ALL POINTS TO YOU TAKE THE SHORT CUT DEATH IS EASIER THAN SOME THINGS. 

"Whew! That's a cheery little greeting, " remarked Bertram. "But whydidn't friend Robinson point it out definitely in his letter?"

"Wanted to test my capacity perhaps. Or, it may have been simply that hewas too frightened and rattled to know just what he was writing. "

"Know anything of him?"

"Only what the directory tells, and directories don't deal in reallyintimate details of biography, you know. There's quite an assortment ofWilliam H. Robinsons, but the one who lives at the Caronia appears to bea commission merchant on Pearl Street. As the Caronia is one of themost elegant and quite the most enormous of those small cities withinthemselves which we call apartment houses, I take it that Mr. Robinsonis well-to-do, and probably married. You can ask him, yourself, if youlike. He's due any moment, now. "

Promptly, as befitted a business man, Mr. William H. Robinson arrivedon the stroke of twelve. He was a well-made, well-dressed citizenof forty-five, who would have been wholly ordinary save for onepeculiarity. In a room more than temperately cool he was sweatingprofusely, and that, despite the fact that his light overcoat was onhis arm. Not polite perspiration, be it noted, such as would have beenexcusable in a gentleman of his pale and sleek plumpness, but soul-wrungsweat, the globules whereof gathered in the grayish hollows under hiseyes and assailed, not without effect, the glistening expanse of histall white collar. He darted a glance at Bertram, then turned to AverageJones. 

"I had hoped for a private interview, " he said in a high piping voice. 

"Mr. Bertram is my friend and business confidant. "

"Very good. You--you have read it?"

"Yes. "

"Then--then--then--" The visitor fumble with nerveless fingers, at histightly buttoned cut-away coat. It resisted his efforts. Suddenly, witha snarl of exasperation, he dragged violently at the lapel, tearingthe button outright from the cloth. "Look what I have done, " he said, staring stupidly for a moment at the button which had shot across theroom. Then, to the amazed consternation of the others, he burst intotears. 

Average Jones pushed a chair behind him, while Bertram brought him aglass of water. He gulped out his thanks, and, mastering himself aftera moment's effort, drew a paper from his inner pocket which he placed onthe desk. It was a certified check for one hundred dollars, made payableto Jones. 

"There's the rest of a thousand ready, if you can help me, " he said. 

"We'll talk of that later, " said the prospective beneficiary. "Sit tightuntil you're able to answer questions. "

"Able now, " piped the other in his shrill voice. "I'm ashamed ofmyself, gentlemen, but the strain I've been under-- When you've heard mystory--"

"Just a moment, please, " interrupted Average Jones, "let me get at thismy own way. "

"Any way you like, " returned the visitor. 

"Good! Now what is it that points to you?"

"I don't know any more than you. "

"What are the 'some things' that are worse than death?"

Mr. Robinson shook his head. "I haven't the slightest notion in theworld. "

"Nor of the 'short cut' which you are advised to take?"

"I suppose it means suicide. " He paused for a moment. "They can't driveme to that--unless they drive me crazy first. " He wiped the sweat fromunder his eyes, breathing hard. 

"Who are they?"'

Mr. Robinson shook his head. In the next question the interrogator'stone altered and became more insistent. 

"Have you ever called in a doctor, Mr. Robinson?"

"Only once in five years. That was when my nerves broke down--underthis. "

"When you do call in a doctor, is it your habit to conceal your symptomsfrom him?"

"Of course not. I see what you mean. Mr. Jones, I give, you my word ofhonor, as I hope to be saved from this persecution, I don't know anymore than yourself what it means. "

"Then--er--I am--er--to believe, " replied Jones, drawling, as he alwaysdid when interest, in his mind, was verging on excitement, "that asimple blind threat like this--er--without any backing from yourown conscience--er--could shake you--er--as this has done? Why, Mr. Robinson, the thing--er--may be--er--only a raw practical joke. "

"But the others!" cried the visitor. His face changed and fell. "Ibelieve I am going crazy, " he groaned. "I didn't tell you about theothers. "

Diving into his overcoat pocket he drew out a packet of letters which heplaced on the desk with a sort of dismal flourish. 

"Read those!" he cried. 

"Presently. " Average Jones ran rapidly over the eight envelopes. Withone exception, each bore the imprint of some firm name made familiar byextensive advertising. All the envelopes were of softish Manila papervarying in grade and hue, under one-cent stamps. 

"Which is the first of the series?" he asked. 

"It isn't among those. Unfortunately it was lost, by a stupid servant'smistake, pin and all. "

"Pin?"

"Yes. Where I cut open the envelope--"

"Wait a moment. You say you cut it open. All these, being one-centpostage, must have come unsealed. Was the first different?"

"Yes. It had a two-cent stamp. It was a circular announcement of theSwift-Reading Encyclopedia, in a sealed envelope. There was a pin bentover the fold of the letter so you couldn't help but notice it. Its headwas stuck through the blank part of the circular. Leading from it werethree very small pins arranged as a pointer to the message. "

"Do you remember the message?"

"Could I forget it! It was pricked out quite small on the blank fold ofthe paper. It said: 'Make the most of your freedom. Your time is short. Call at General Delivery, Main P. O. , for your warning. ' I--"

"You went there?"

"The next day. "

"And found--?"

"An ordinary sealed envelope, addressed in pinpricks connected by pencillines. The address was scrawly, but quite plain. "

"Well, what did it contain?"

"A commitment blank to an insane asylum. "

Average Jones absently drew out his handkerchief, elaborately whiskedfrom his coat sleeve an imaginary speck of dust, and smiled benignantlywhere the dust was supposed to have been. 

"Insane asylum, " he murmured. "Was--er--the blank--er--filled in?"

"Only partly. My name was pricked in, and there was a specification ofdementia from drug habit, with suicidal tendencies. "

With a quick signal, unseen by the visitor, Average Jones opened theway to Bertram, who, in wide range of experience and study had oncespecialized upon abnormal mental phenomena. 

"Pardon me, " that gentleman put in gently, "has there ever been anydementia in your family?"

"Not as far as I know. "

"Or suicidal mania?"

"All my people have died respectably in their beds, " declared thevisitor with some vehemence. 

"Once more, if I may venture. Have you ever been addicted to any drug?"

"Never, sir. "

"Now, " Average Jones took up the examination, "will you tell me of anyenemy who would have reason to persecute you?"

"I haven't an enemy in the world. "

"You're fortunate, " returned the other smiling, "but surely, sometime in your career--business rivalry--family alienation--any one of athousand causes?"

"No, " answered the harassed man. "Not for me. My business runs smoothly. My relations are mostly dead. I have no friends and no enemies. My wifeand I live alone, and all we ask, " he added in a sudden outburst ofalmost childish resentment, "is to be left alone. "

The inquisitor's gaze returned to the packet of letters. "You haven'tcomplained to the post-office authorities?"

"And risk the publicity?" returned Robinson with a shudder. 

"Well, give me over night with these. Oh, and I may want to 'phone youpresently. You'll be at home? Thank you. Good day. "

"Now, " said Average Jones to Bertram, as their caller's plump backdisappeared, "this looks pretty, queer to me. What did you think of ourfriend?"

"Scared but straight, " was Bertram's verdict. 

"Glad to hear it. That's my idea, too. Let's have a look at thematerial. We've already got the opening threat, and the General Deliveryfollow-up. "

"Which shows, at least, that it isn't a case of somebody in theapartment house tampering with the mail. "

"Not only that. It's a dodge to find out whether he got the firstmessage. People don't always read advertisements, even when sealed, asthe first message-bearing one was. Therefore, our mysterious persecutorsays: 'I'll just have Robinson prove it to me, if he did get the firstmessage, by calling for the second. ' Then, after a lapse of time, hehimself goes to the General Delivery, asks for a letter for Mr. WilliamH. Robinson, finds it's gone, and is satisfied. "

"Yes, and he'd be sure then that Robinson would go through all themailed ads with a fine-tooth comb, after that. But why the pin-pricks?Just to disguise his hand?"

"Possibly. It's a fairly effectual disguise. "

"Why didn't he address the envelope that way, then?"

"The address wouldn't be legible against the white background of thepaper inside. On the other hand, if he'd addressed all his envelopes bypinpricks filled in with pencil lines, the post-office people might getcurious and look into one. Sending threats through the mail is a seriousmatter. "

Average Jones ran over the letter again. "Good man, Robinson!" heobserved. "He's penciled the date of receipt on each one, like a fineyoung methodical business gent. Here we are: 'Rec'd July 14. Cardfrom Goshorn & Co. , Oriental Goods. ' Message pricked in through thecardboard: 'You are suspected by your neighbors. Watch them. ' Not badfor a follow-up, is it?"

"It would look like insanity, if it weren't that--that through theletters 'one increasing purpose runs, '" parodied Bertram. 

"Here's one of July thirty-first; an advertisement of the Croiset Linetours to the Orient. Listen here, Bert: 'Whither can guilt flee thatvengeance, may not follow?'"

"I can't quite see Robinson in the part of guilt, " mused Bertram. "What's next?"

"More veiled accusation. The medium is a church society announcement ofa lecture on Japanese Feudalism. Date, August seventeenth. Inscription:'If there is no blood on your soul, why do you not face your judges?"'

"Little anti-climactic, don't you think?"

"What about this one of September seventh, then? Direct reference backto the drug habit implied in the commitment blank. It's a testimonialbooklet of one of the poisonous headache dopes, Lemona Powders. Themessage is pricked through the cover. 'Better these than the hell ofsuspense. '"

"Trying the power of suggestion, eh?"

"Quite so. The second attempt at it is even more open. An advertisementof Shackleton's Safeguard Revolvers. Date, September twenty-second. Advice, by pin: 'As well this as any other way. '"

"Drug or suicide, " remarked Bertram. "The man at the other end doesn'tseem particular which. "

"There's the insane asylum always to fall back on. Under date ofOctober first, comes the Latherton Soap Company's impassioned appeal toself-shaving manhood. Great Caesar! No wonder poor Robinson wasupset. Listen to this: 'God himself hates you. ' After that there's athree-weeks respite, for there's October twenty-second on this one, Kirkby and Dunn's offering of five percent water bonds. 'The commissionhas its spies watching you constantly. ' Calculated to inspire confidencein the most timid soul! Now we come to the soup course: Smith andPerkins' Potted Chowder. Date of November third. Er--Bert--here'ssomething--er--really worth while, now. Hark to the song of the pin. "

He read sonorously:

 "Animula, vagula, Bandula, Hospes, comesque corporis; Quaenunc abibis in loca?"

"Hadrian, isn't it?" cried Bertram, in utter amazement. "Of course itis! Hadrian's terrified invocation to his own parting spirit. 'Guest andcompanion of my body; into what places will you now go?' Average, it'suncanny! Into what place of darkness and dread is the Demon of the Pintrying to drive poor Robinson's spirit?"

Average Jones shook his head. "'Pailidula, nudula, rigida, "' hecompleted the quatrain. "'Ghostpale, stark, and rigid. ' He's got agrisly imagination, that pin-operator. I shouldn't care to have him onmy trail. "

"But Robinson!" protested Bertram feebly. "What has a plump, commonplace, twentieth-century, cutaway-wearing, flat-inhabitingRobinson to do with a Roman emperor's soul-questionings?"

"Perhaps the last entry of the lot will tell us. Palmerto's Magazine'sfeature announcement, received November ninth. No; it doesn't give anyclue to the Latinity. It isn't bad, though. 'The darkness falls. ' That'sall there is to it. And enough. "

"I should say the darkness did fall, " confirmed Bertram. "It falls--andremains. "

Average Jones pushed the collection of advertisements aside and returnedto the opening phase of the problem, the fish-bait circular whichRobinson had mailed him. So long after, that Bertram hardly recognizedit as a response to his last remark, the investigator drawled out:

"Not such--er--impenetrable darkness. In fact, --er--Eureka, or words tothat effect. Bert, when does the bass season end?"

"November first, hereabouts, I believe. "

"The postmark on the envelope that carried this advertisement to ourfriend advises the use of the baits for 'these next two months. ' Queertime to be using bass-lures, after the season is closed. Bert, it's apity I can't waggle my ears. "

"Waggle your ears! For heaven's sake, why?"

"Because then I'd be such a perfect jackass that I could win medals at ashow. I ought to have guessed it at first glance, from the fact thatthe advertisement couldn't well have been mailed to Robinson originally, anyhow. "

"Why not?"

"Because he's not in the sporting-goods business, and the advertisementis obviously addressed to the retail trade. Don't you remember: itoffers a showcase, free. What does a man living in an apartment wantof a show-case to keep artificial bait in? What we--er--need hereis--er--steam. "

A moment's manipulation of the radiator produced a small jet. In thisAverage Jones held the envelope. The stamp curled tip and dropped off. Beneath it were the remains of a small portion of a former postmark. 

"I thought so, " murmured Average Jones. 

"Remailed!" exclaimed Bertram. 

"Remailed, " corroborated his friend. "I expect we'll find the others thesame. "

One by one he submitted the envelopes to the steam bath. Each of them, as the stamp was peeled off, exhibited more or less fragmentary signs ofa previous cancellation. 

"Careless work, " criticized Average Jones. "Every bit of the mark shouldhave been removed, instead of trusting to the second stamp to cover whatlittle was left, by shifting it a bit toward the center of the envelope. Look; you can see on this one where the original stamp was peeled off. On this the traces of erasure are plain enough. That's why Manila paperwas selected: it's easier to erase from. "

"Is Robinson faking?" asked Bertram. "Or has some one been rifling hiswaste-basket?"

"That would mean an accomplice in the house, which would be dangerous. I think it was done at longer range. As for the question of our friend'sfaking in his claim of complete ignorance of all this, I propose to findthat out right now. "

Drawing the telephone to him, he called the Caronia apartments. Thus itwas that Mr. William H. Robinson, for two unhappy minutes, profoundlyfeared that at last he had really lost his mind. This is theconversation in which he found himself implicated. 

"Hello! Mr. Robinson? This is Mr. A. Jones. You hear me?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones. What is it?"

"Integer vitae, scelerisque-purus. "

"I--I--beg your pardon!"

"Non egit Mauris jaculis nec arcu. "

"This is Mr. Robinson: Mr. William H. Rob--"

"Nec venenatis grasida sag--Hello! Central, don't cut off! Mr. Robinson, do you understand me?"

"God knows, I don't!"

"If he doesn't recognize the Integer Vitae, " said Average Jones in aswift aside to Bertram, "he certainly wouldn't know the more obscureLatin of the late Mr. Hadrian. "

"One more question, Mr. Robinson. Is there, in all your acquaintance, any person who never goes out without an attendant? Take time to think, now. "

"Why--why--why, " stuttered the appalled subject of this examination, andfell into silence. From the depths of the silence he presently exhumedthe following: "I did have a paralytic cousin who always went out in awheeled chair. But she's dead. "

"And there's no one else?"

"No. I'm quite sure. "

"That's all. Good-by. "

"Thank Heaven! Good-by. "

"What was that about an attendant?" inquired Bertram, as his friendreplaced the receiver. 

"Oh, I've just a hunch that the sender of those messages doesn't go outunaccompanied. "

"Insane? Or semi-insane? It does rather look like delusional paranoia. "

As nearly as imperfect humanity may, Average Jones appeared to besmiling indulgently at the end of his own nose. 

"Dare say you're right--er--in part, Bert. But I've also a hunch thatour man Robinson is himself the delusion as well as the object. "

"I wish you wouldn't be cryptic, Average, " said his friend pathetically. "There's been enough of that without your gratuitously adding to the sumof human bewilderment. ", Average Jones scribbled a few words on a pad, considered, amended, andhanded the result over to Bertram, who read:

 WANTED--Professional envelope eraser to remove marks from used envelopes. Experience essential. Apply at once--A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple. "

"Would it enlighten your gloom to see that in every New York andBrooklyn paper to-morrow?" inquired its inventor. 

"Not a glimmer. "

"We'll give this ad a week's repetition if necessary, before trying moreroundabout measures. As soon as I have heard from it I'll drop in at theclub and we'll write--that is to say, compose a letter. "

"To whom?"

"Oh, that I don't know yet. When I do, you'll see me. "

Three days later Average Jones entered the Cosmic Club, with thattwinkling up-turn of the mouth corners which, with him, indicatedsatisfactory accomplishment. 

"Really, Bert, " he remarked, seeking out his languid friend, in thelaziest corner of the large divan. 

"You'd be surprised to know how few experienced envelope erasers thereare in four millions of population. Only seven people answered thatadvertisement, and they were mostly tyros. "

"Then you didn't get your man?"

"It was a woman. The fifth applicant. Got a pin about you?"

Bertram took a pearl from his scarf. 

"That's good. It will make nice, bold, inevitable sort of letters. Comeover here to this desk. "

For a few moments he worked at a sheet of, paper with the pin, thenthrew it down in disgust. 

"This sort of thing requires practice, " he muttered. "Here, Bert, you'recleverer with your fingers than I. You take it, and I'll dictate. "

Between them, after several failures, they produced a fair copy of thefollowing:

"Mr. Alden Honeywell will choose between making explanation to thepost-office authorities or calling at 3:30 P. M. To-morrow on A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple. "

This Average Jones enclosed in an envelope which he addressed inwriting to Alden Honeywell, Esq. , 550 West Seventy-fourth Street, City, afterward pin-pricking the letters in outline. "Just for moral effect, "he explained. "In part this ought to give him a taste of the trouble hemade for poor Robinson. You'll be there to-morrow, Bert?"

"Watch me!" replied that gentleman with unwonted emphasis. "But willAlden Honeywell, Esquire?"

"Surely. Also Mr. William H. Robinson, of the Caronia. Note that 'of theCaronia. ' It's significant. "

At three-thirty the following afternoon three men were waiting inAverage Jones' inner office. Average Jones sat at his desk sedulouslypolishing his left-hand fore-knuckle with the tennis callous of hisright palm. Bertram lounged gracefully in the big chair. Mr. Robinsonfidgeted. There was an atmosphere of tension in the room. At three-fortythere came a tap-tapping across the floor of the outer room, and a knockat the door brought them all to their feet. Average Jones threw the dooropen, took the man who stood outside by the arm, and pushing a chairtoward him, seated him in it. 

The new-comer was an elderly man dressed with sober elegance. In hisscarf was a scarab of great value; on his left hand a superb signetring. He carried a heavy, gold-mounted stick. His face was curiouslydivided against itself. The fine calm forehead and the deep setting ofthe widely separate eyes gave an impression of intellectual power andbalance. But the lower part of the face was mere wreckage; the chinquivering and fallen, from self-indulgence, the fine lines of the nosecoarsened by the spreading nostrils; the mouth showing both the softcontours of sensuality and the hard, fine line of craft and cruelty. Theman's eyes were unholy. They stared straight before him, and weredead. With his entrance there was infused in the atmosphere a sense ofsomething venomous. "Mr. Alden Honeywell?" said Average Jones. 

"Yes. " The voice had refinement and calm. 

"I want to introduce you to Mr. William H. Robinson. "

The new-comer's head turned slowly to his right shoulder then back. Hiseyes remained rigid. 

"Why, the man's blind!" burst out Mr. Robins in his piping voice. 

"Blind!" echoed Bertram. "Did you know this Average?"

"Of course. The pin-pricks showed it. And the letter mailed to Mr. Robinson at the General Delivery, which, if you remember, had theaddress penciled in from pin-holes. "

"When you have quite done discussing my personal misfortune, " saidHoneywell patiently, "perhaps you will be good enough to tell me whichis William Robinson. "

"I am, " returned the owner of that name. "And do you be good enough totell me why you hound me with your hellish threats. "

"That is not William Robinson's voice!" said the blind man. "Who areyou?"

"William H. Robinson. "

"Not William Honeywell Robinson!"

"No; William Hunter Robinson. "

"Then why am I brought here?"

"To make a statement for publication in to-morrow morning's newspaper, "returned Average Jones crisply. 

"Statement? Is this a yellow journal trap?"

"As a courtesy to Mr. Robinson, I'll explain. How long have you lived inthe Caronia, Mr. Robinson?"

"About eight months. "

"Then, some three or four months before you moved in, another William H. Robinson lived there for a short time. His middle name was Honeywell. Heis a cousin, and an object of great solicitude to this gentleman here. In fact, he is, or will be, the chief witness against Mr. Honeywell inhis effort to break the famous Holden Honeywell will, disposing of someten million dollars. Am I right, Mr. Honeywell?"

"Thus far, " replied the blind man composedly. 

"Five years ago William Honeywell Robinson became addicted to a patentheadache 'dope. ' It ended, as such habits do, in insanity. He wasconfined two years, suffering from psychasthenia, with suicidalmelancholia and delusion of persecution. Then he was released, cured, but with a supersensitive mental balance. "

"Then the messages were intended to drive him out of his mind again, "said Bertram in sudden enlightenment. "What a devil!"

"Either that, or to impel him, by suggestion, to suicide or to revert tothe headache powders, which would have meant the asylum again. Anythingto put him out of the way, or to make his testimony incompetent for thewill contest. So, when the ex-lunatic returned from Europe a year ago, our friend Honeywell here, in some way located him at the Caronia. Hematured his little scheme. Through a letter broker who deals with therag and refuse collectors, he got all the second-hand mail from theCaronia. Meantime, William Honeywell Robinson had moved away, and aschance would have it, William Hunter Robinson moved in, receiving thepinprick letters which, had they reached their goal, would probably haveproduced the desired effect. "

"If they drove a sane man nearly crazy, what wouldn't they have done toone whose mind wasn't quite right!" cried the wronged Robinson. 

"But since Mr. Honeywell is blind, " said Bertram, "how could he see toerase the cancellations?"

"Ah! That's what I asked myself. Obviously, he couldn't. He'd haveto get that done for him. Presumably he'd get some stranger to do it. That's why I advertised for a professional eraser who was experienced, judging that it would fetch the person who had done Honeywell's work. "

"Is there any such thing as a professional envelope eraser?" askedBertram. 

"No. So a person of experience in this line would be almost unique. Iwas sure to find the right one, if he or she saw my advertisement. As amatter of fact, it turned out to be an unimaginative young woman who hastold me all about her former employment with Mr. Honeywell, apparentlywith no thought that there was anything strange in erasing cancellationsfrom hundreds of envelopes--for Honeywell was cautious enough not toconfine her to the Robinson mail alone--and then pasting on stamps toremail them. "

"You appear to have followed out my moves with some degree of acumen, Mr. --er--Jones, " said the blind schemer suavely. 

"Yet I might not have solved your processes easily if you had not madeone rather--if you will pardon me, stupid mistake. "

For the first time, the man's bloated lips shook. His evil pride ofintellectuality was stung. 

"You lie!" he said hastily. "I do not make mistakes. "

"No? Well, have it as you will. The point that you are to sign here astatement, which I shall read to you before these witnesses, announcingfor publication the withdrawal of your contest for the Honeywellmillions. "

"And if I decline?"

"The painful necessity will be mine of turning over these instructivedocuments to the United States postal authorities. But not before givingthem to the newspapers. How would you look in court, in view of thisattempt to murder a fellow man's reason?"

Mr. Honeywell had now gained his composure. "You are right, " heassented. "You seem to have a singular faculty for being right. Becareful it does not fail you--sometime. "

"Thank you, " returned Average Jones. "Now you will listen, please, allof you. "

He read the brief document, placed it before the blind man, and set apin between his finger and thumb. "Sign there, " he said. 

Honeywell smiled as he pricked in his name. 

"For identification, I suppose, " he said. "Am I to assign no cause tothe newspapers for my sudden action?"

A twinkle of malice appeared in Average Jones' eye. 

"I would suggest waning mental acumen, " he said. 

The blind man winced palpably as he rose to his feet. "That is thesecond time you have taunted me on that. Kindly tell me my mistake. "

Average Jones led him to the door and opened it. 

"Your mistake, " he drawled as he sped his parting guest into the graspof a waiting attendant, "was--er--in not remembering that--er--youmustn't fish for bass in November. "

CHAPTER VIII. BIG PRINT

In the Cosmic Club Mr. Algernon Spofford was a figure of distinction. Amidst the varied, curious, eccentric, brilliant, and even slightlyunbalanced minds which made the organization unique, his was the onlywholly stolid and stupid one. Club tradition declared that he had beenadmitted solely for the beneficent purpose of keeping the more egotisticmembers in a permanent and pleasing glow of superiority. He was veryrich, but otherwise quite harmless. In an access of unappreciatedcynicism, Average Jones had once suggested to him, as a device for hisnewly acquired coat-of-arms, "Rocks et Praeterea Nihil. "

But the "praeterea nihil" was something less than fair to Mr. Spofford, with whom it was not strictly a case of "nothing further" besides his"rocks". Ambition, the vice of great souls, burned within Spofford'spigeon-breast. He longed to distinguish himself in the line of endeavorof his friend Jones and was prone to proffer suggestions, hints, andeven advice, to the great tribulation of the recipient. 

Hence it was with misgiving that the Ad-Visor opened the door of hissanctum to Mr. Spofford, on a harsh December noon. But the misgivingswere supplanted by pleased surprise when the caller laid in his hand aclipping from a small country town paper, to this effect:

 RANSOM--Lost lad from Harwick not drowned or harmed. Retained for ransom. Safe and sound to parents for $50, 000. Write, Mortimer Morley, General Delivery, N. Y. Post-Office. 

"Thought that'd catch you, " chuckled Mr. Spofford, in greatself-congratulation. "'Jones'll see into this, ' I says to myself. 'If hedon't, I'll explain. ' Somethin' to that, ay?"

Average Jones looked from the advertisement to the vacuous smile ofMr. Algernon Spofford. "Oh, you'll explain, will you?" he said softly. "Well, the thing I'd like to have explained is--come over here to thewindow a minute, will you, Algy?"

Mr. Spofford came, and gazed down upon a dispiriting area of rain-sweptstreet and bedraggled wayfarers. 

"See that ten-story office building across the way?" pursued AverageJones. "What would you do if, coming in here at midnight, you were tosee twenty-odd rats ooze out of that building and disperse about theirbusiness?"

"I--I'd quit, " said the startled promptly. 

"That's the obvious solution, " retorted "but my question wasn't intendedto elicit a brand of music-hall humor. "

Spofford contemplated the building uneasily. "I don't know what you'reup to, Average, " he complained. "Is it a catch?"

"No; it's a test case. What would you do?"

"I'd think it was Billy-be-dashed queer, " answered Spofford withprofound conviction. 

"You're getting on, " said Jones tartly. "And next?"

"Ay? How do I know? What're you devilin' me this way for?"

"You wouldn't call a policeman?"

"No, " said Spofford, staring. 

"You wouldn't hustle around and 'phone Central?"

"Bosh!"

"Yet if any one told you you hadn't the sense a policeman, you'd resentit. "

"Of course, I would!"

"Well, Jimmy McCue, the night special, who patrols past the corner, saw that very thing happen a few nights ago at the Sterriter Building. Knowing that rats don't go out at midnight for a saunter, two dozenstrong, he began to suspect. "

"Suspect what?" growled Spofford. 

"That there must be some abnormal cause for so abnormal a proceeding. Think, now, Algy. "

"I've heard of rats leavin' a sinkin' ship. The building might have beensinkin', " suggested the visitor hopefully. 

"Is that the best you can do? I'll give you one more try. "

"I know, " said Spofford. "A cat. "

"On my soul, " declared Average Jones, gazing at his club-mate withincreased interest, "you're the most remarkable specimen of invertedmentality I've ever encountered. D'you think a cat habitually rounds uptwo dozen rats and then chivies 'em out into the street for sport? McCuedidn't have any cat theory. He figured that when rats come out of aplace that way the place is afire. So he turned in an alarm and saved atwo hundred and fifty thousand dollar building. "

"Umph!" grunted Spofford. "Well, what's that got to do with theadvertisement I brought you?"

"Nothing in the world, directly. I'm merely trying to figure out, in myown way, how a mind like yours could see under the surface print intothe really interesting peculiarity of this clipping. Now I know thatyour mind didn't do anything of the sort. Come on, now, Algy, who sentthis to you?"

"Cousin of mine up in Harwick. I wish you weren't so Billy-be-dashedsharp, Average. I used to visit in Harwick, so they asked me to get youinterested in Bailey Prentice's case. He's the lost boy. "

"You've done it. Now tell me all you know. "

Spofford produced a letter which gave the outlines of the case. BaileyPrentice's disappearance it was set forth, was the lesser of twosimultaneous phenomena which violently jarred the somnolent New Englandvillage of Harwick from its wonted calm. The greater was the "Harwickmeteor. " At ten-fifteen on the night of December twelfth, the streetsbeing full of people coming from the moving picture show, there wasa startling concussion from the overhanging clouds and the astoundedpopulace saw a ball of flame plunging earthward, to the northwest ofthe town, and waxing in intensity as it fell. Darkness succeeded. But, within a minute, a lurid radiance rose and spread in the night. Theaerial bolt had gone crashing through an old barn on the Tuxall place, setting it afire. 

Bailey Prentice was among the very few who did not go to the fire. Takenin connection with the fact that he was fourteen years old and verythoroughly a boy, this, in itself, was phenomenal. In the excitementof the occasion, however, his absence was not noted. But when, on thefollowing morning, the Reverend Peter Prentice, going up to call hisson, found the boy's room empty and the bed untouched, the secondsensation of the day was launched. Bailey Prentice had, quite simply, vanished. 

Some one offered the theory that, playing truant from the house whilehis father was engaged in work below stairs, he had been overwhelmed andperhaps wholly consumed by a detached fragment from the fiery visitant. This picturesque suggestion found many supporters until, on theafternoon of December fourteenth, a coat and waistcoat were found onthe seashore a mile north of the village. The Reverend Mr. Prenticeidentified the clothes as his son's. Searching parties covered the beachfor miles, looking for the body. Preparations were made for the funeralservices, when a new and astonishing factor was injected into thesituation. An advertisement, received by mail from New York, with stampsaffixed to the "copy" to pay for its insertion, appeared in the localpaper. 

"And here's the advertisement, " concluded Mr. Algernon Spofford, indicating the slip of paper which he had turned over to Average Jones. "And if you are going up to Harwick and need help there, why I've gottime to spare. "

"Thank you, Algy, " replied Average Jones gravely. "But I think you'dbetter stay here in case anything turns up at this end. Suppose, " headded with an inspiration, "you trace this Mortimer Morley through thegeneral delivery. "

"All right, " agreed Spofford innocently satisfied with this wild-gooseerrand. "Lemme know if anything good turns up. "

Average Jones took train for Harwick, and within a few hours was rubbinghis hands over an open fire in the parsonage, whose stiff and cheerlessaspect bespoke the lack of a woman's humanizing touch for the ReverendMr. Prentice was a widower. Overwrought with anxiety and strain, the clergyman, as soon as he had taken his coat, began a hurried, inconsequential narrative, broke off, tried again, fell into aninextricable confusion of words, and, dropping his head in his hands, cried:

"I can't tell you. It is all a hopeless jumble. "

"Come!" said the younger man encouragingly. "Comfort yourself with theidea that your son is alive, at any rate. "

"But how can I be sure, even of that?"

Average Jones glanced at a copy of the advertisement which he held. "Ithink we can take Mr. Morley's word so far. "

"Even so; fifty thousand dollars ransom!" said the minister, and stoppedwith a groan. 

"Nonsense!" said Average Jones heartily. "That advertisement counts fornothing. Professional kidnappers do not select the sons of impecuniousministers for their prey. Nor do they give addresses through which theymay be found. You can dismiss the advertisement as a blind; the secondblind, in fact. "

"The second?"

"Certainly. The first was the clothing on the shore. It was put there tocreate the impression that your son was drowned. "

"Yes; we all supposed that he must be. "

"By what possible hypothesis a boy should be supposed to take off coatand waistcoat and wade off-shore into a winter sea is beyond my poorpowers of conjecture, " said the other. "No. Somebody 'planted' theclothes there. "

"It seems far-fetched to me, " said the Reverend Mr. Prentice doubtfully. "Who would have any motive for doing such a thing?"

"That is what we have to find out. What time did your son go to his roomthe night of his disappearance?"

"Earlier than usual, as I remember. A little before nine o'clock. "

"Any special reason for his going up earlier?"

"He wanted to experiment with a new fishing outfit just given him forhis birthday. "

"I see. Will you take me to his room?"

They mounted to the boy's quarters, which overlooked the roof of theside porch from a window facing north. The charred ruins of a barnabout, half a mile away were plainly visible through this window. 

"The barn which the meteor destroyed, " said the Reverend Mr. Prentice, pointing it out. 

One glance was all that Average Jones bestowed upon a spot which, fora few days, had been of national interest. His concern was insidethe room. A stand against the wall was littered with bits of shiningmechanism. An unjointed fishing-rod lay on the bed. Near at hand were asmall screw-driver and a knife with a broken blade. 

"Were things in this condition when you came to call Bailey in themorning and found him gone?" asked Average Jones. 

"Nothing has been touched, " said the clergyman in a low voice. 

Average Jones straightened up and stretched himself languidly. His voicewhen he spoke again took on the slow drawl of boredom. One might havethought that he had lost all interest in the case but for the thoughtfulpucker of the broad forehead which belied his halting accents. 

"Then--er--when Bailey left here he hadn't any idea of--er--runningaway. "

"I don't follow you, Mr. Jones. "

"Psychology, " said Average Jones. "Elementary psychology. Here's yourson's new reel. A normal boy doesn't abandon a brand-new fad when heruns away. It isn't in boy nature. No, he was taking this reel apartto study it when some unexpected occurrence checked him and drew himoutside. "

"The meteor. "

"I made some inquiries in the village on my way, up. None of thehundreds of people who turned out for the fire, remembers seeing Baileyabout. "

 "That is true. "

"The meteor fell at ten-fifteen. Bailey went upstairs before nine. Allowhalf an hour for taking apart the reel. I don't believe he'd have beenlonger at it. So, it's probable that he was out of the house before themeteor fell. "

"I should have heard him go out of the front door. "

"That is, perhaps, why he went out of the window, " observed AverageJones, indicating certain marks on the sill. Swinging his feet over, hestepped upon the roof of the porch, and peered at the ground below. 

"And down the lightning rod, " he added. 

For a moment he stood meditating. "The ground is now frozen hard, " hesaid presently. "Bailey's footprints where he landed are deeply marked. Therefore the soil must have been pretty soft at the time. "

"Very, " agreed the clergyman. "There had been a three-day downpour, upto the evening of Bailey's disappearance. About nine o'clock the windshift to the northeast, and everything froze hard. There has been nothaw since. "

"You seem very clear on these points, Mr. Prentice. "

"I noted them specially, having in mind to write a paper on themeteorite for the Congregationalist. "

"Ah! Perhaps you could tell me, then, how soon after the meteor's fall, the barn yonder was discovered to be afire?"

"Almost instantly. It was in full blaze within very short time after. "

"How short? Five minutes or so?"

"Not so much. Certainly not more than two. "

"H'm! Peculiar! Ra-a-a-ather peculiar. " drawled Average Jones. "Particularly in view of the weather. "

"In what respect?"

"In respect to a barn, water-soaked by a three-day rain bursting intoflame like tinder. "

"It had not occurred to me. But the friction and heat of the meteoritemust have been extremely great. "

"And extremely momentary except as to the lower floor, and the fireshould have taken some time to spread from that. However, to turn toother matters--" He swung himself over the edge of the roof and wentbriskly down the lightning rod. Across the frozen ground he moved, withhis eyes on the soil, and presently called up to his, host:

"At any rate, he started across lots in the direction of the barn. Willyou come down and let me in?"

Back in the study, Average Jones sat meditating a few moments. Presentlyhe asked:

"Did you go to the spot where your son's clothes were found?"

"Yes. Some time after. "

"Where was it?"

"On the seashore, some half a mile to the east of the Tuxall place, anda little beyond. "

"Is there a roadway from the Tuxall place to the spot?"

"No; I believe not. But one could go across the fields and through thebarn to the old deserted roadway. "

"Ah. There's an old roadway, is there?"

"Yes. It skirts the shore to join Boston Pike about three miles up. "

"And how far from this roadway were your son's clothes found?"

"Just a few feet. "

"H'm. Any tracks in the roadway?"

"Yes. I recall seeing some buggy tracks and being surprised, because noone ever drives that way. "

"Then it is conceivable that your son's clothes might have been tossedfrom a passing vehicle, to the spot where they were discovered. "

"Conceivable, certainly. But I can see no grounds for such aconjecture. "

"How far down the road, in this direction, did tracks run?"

"Not beyond the fence-bar opening from the Tuxall field, if that is whatyou mean. "

"It is, exactly. Do you know this Tuxall?"

"Hardly at all. He is a recent comer among us. "

"Well, I shall probably want to make his acquaintance, later. "

"Have a care, then. He is very jealous of his precious meteor, andguards the ruins of the barn, where it lies, with a shot gun. "

"Indeed? He promises to be an interesting study. Meantime, I'd like tolook at your son's clothes. "

From a closet Mr. Prentice brought out a coat and waistcoat of the"pepper-and-salt" pattern which is sold by the hundreds of thousands thewhole country over. These the visitor examined carefully. The coatwas caked with mud, particularly thick on one shoulder. He called theminister's attention to it. 

 "That would be from lying wet on the shore, " said the Reverend Mr. Prentice. 

"Not at all. This is mud, not sand. And it's ground or pressed in. Hasany one tampered with these since they were found?"

"I went through the pockets. "

Average Jones frowned. "Find anything?"

"Nothing of importance. A handkerchief, some odds and ends ofstring--oh, and a paper with some gibberish on it. "

"What was the nature of this gibberish?"

"Why it might have been some sort of boyish secret code, though it washardly decipherable enough to judge from. I remember some flamboyantadjectives referring to something three feet high. I threw the paperinto the waste-basket. "

Turning that receptacle out on the table, Average Jones discovered inthe debris a sheet of cheap, ruled paper, covered with penciled words inprint characters. Most of these had been crossed out in favor of otherwords or sentences, which in turn had been "scratched. " Evidently thewriter had been toilfully experimenting toward some elegance or emphasisof expression, which persistently eluded him. Amidst the wreck and ruinof rhetoric, however, one phrase stood out clear:

"Stupendous scientific sensation. "

Below this was a huddle and smudge of words, from which adjectivesdarted out like dim flame amidst smoke. "Gigantic" showed in its entityfollowed by an unintelligible erasure. At the end this line was thelegend "3 Feet High. " "Verita Visitor, " appeared below, and beyond it, what seemed to be the word "Void. " And near the foot of the sheetthe student of all this chaos could make faintly but unmistakably, "Marvelous Man-l--" the rest of the word being cut off by a broad blacksmear. "Monster 3 Feet. " The remainder was wholly undecipherable. 

Average Jones looked up from this curio, and there was a strangeexpression in the eyes which met the minister's. 

"You--er--threw this in the--er--waste-basket. " he drawled. "In whichpocket was it?"

"The waistcoat. An upper one, I believe. There was a pencil there, too. "

"Have you an old pair of shoes of Bailey's, " asked the visitor abruptly. 

"Why, I suppose so. In the attic somewhere. "

"Please bring them to me. "

The Reverend Mr. Prentice left the room. No sooner had the door closedafter him than Average Jones jumped out of his chair stripped to hisshirt, caught up the pepper-and-salt waistcoat, tried it on and buttonedit across his chest without difficulty; then thrust his arm into thecoat which went with it, and wormed his way, effortfully, partly intothat. He laid it aside only when he had determined that he could getit no farther on. He was clothed and in his right garments when theReverend Mr. Prentice returned with a much-worn pair of shoes. 

"Will these do?" he asked. 

Average Jones hardly gave them the courtesy of a glance. "Yes, " he saidindifferently, and set them aside. "Have you a time-table here?"

"You're going to leave?" cried the clergyman, in sharp disappointment. 

"In just half an hour, " replied the visitor, holding his finger on thetime-table. 

"But, " cried Mr. Prentice, "that is the train back to New York. "

"Exactly. "

"And you're not going to see Tuxall?"

"No. "

"Nor to examine the place where the clothes were found?"

"Haven't time. "

"Mr. Jones, are you giving up the attempt to discover what became of myboy?"

"I know what became of him. "

The minister put out a hand and grasped the back of a chair for support. His lips parted. No sound came from them. Average Jones carefully foldedthe paper of "gibberish" and tucked it away in his card case. 

"Bailey has been carried away by two people in a buggy. They werestrangers to the town. He was injured and unconscious. They still havehim. Incidentally, he has seriously interfered with a daring and highlyingenious enterprise. That is all I can tell you at present. "

The clergyman found his voice. "In heaven, Mr. Jones, " he cried, "tellme who and what these people are. "

"I don't know who they are. I do know what they are. But it can do nogood to tell you the one until I can find out the other. Be sure of onething, Bailey is in no further danger. You'll hear from me as soon as Ihave anything definite to report. "

With that the Reverend Mr. Prentice had to be content; that and a fewdays later, a sheet of letter-paper bearing the business imprint of theAd-Visor, and enclosing this advertisement:

 WANTED--3 Ft. Type for sensational Bill Work. Show samples. Delivery in two weeks. A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Court Temple, N. Y. City. 

Had the Reverend Mr. Prentice been a reader of journals devoted to theart and practice of printing he might have observed that message widelyscattered to the trade. It was answered by a number of printing shops. But, as the answers came in to Average Jones, he put them aside, becausenone of the seekers for business was able to "show samples. " Finallythere came a letter from Hoke and Hollins of Rose Street. They wouldlike Mr. Jones to call and inspect some special type upon which theywere then at work. Mr. Jones called. The junior member received him. 

"Quite providential, Mr. Jones, " he said. "We're turning out somesingle-letter, hand-made type of just the size you want. Only part ofthe alphabet, however. Isn't that a fine piece of lettering!"

He held up an enormous M to the admiration of his visitor. 

"Excellent!" approved Average Jones. "I'd like to see other letters; A, for example. "

Mr. Hollins produced a symmetrical A. 

"And now, an R, if you please; and perhaps a V. "

Mr. Hollis looked at his visitor with suspicion. "You appear to beselecting the very letters which I have, " he remarked. 

"Those which--er--would make up the--er--legend, 'Marvelous Man-LikeMonster, " drawled Average Jones. 

"Then you know the Farleys, "' said the print man. 

"The Flying Farleys?" said Average Jones. "They used to do ascensionswith firework trimmings, didn't they? No; I don't exactly know them. ButI'd like to. "

"That's another matter, " retorted Mr. Hollins, annoyed at havingbetrayed himself. "This type is decidedly a private--even asecret-order. I had no right to say anything about it or the customerswho ordered it. "

"Still, you could see that a letter left here for them reached them, Isuppose. "

After some hesitation, the other agreed. Average Jones sat down tothe composition of an epistle, which should be sufficiently imperativewithout being too alarming. Having completed this delicate task to hissatisfaction he handed the result to Hollins. 

"If you haven't already struck off a line, you might do so, " hesuggested. "I've asked the Farleys for a print of it; and I fancythey'll be sending for one. "

Leaving the shop he went direct to a telegraph office, whence hedispatched two messages to Harwick. One was to the Reverend PeterPrentice, the other was to the local chief of police. On the followingafternoon Mr. Prentice trembling in the anteroom of the Ad-Visor's. Withthe briefest word of greeting Average Jones led him into his privateoffice, where a clear-eyed boy, with his head swathed in bandagessat waiting. As the Ad-Visor closed the door after him, he heard thebreathless, boyish "Hello, father, " merged in the broken cry of theReverend Peter Prentice. 

Five minutes he gave father and son. When he returned to the room, carrying a loose roll of reddish paper, he was followed by a strangecouple. The woman was plumply muscular. Her attractive face was bothdefiant and uneasy. Behind her strode a wiry man of forty. His chiefclaim to notice lay in an outrageously fancy waistcoat, which wasill-matched with his sober, commonplace, "pepper-and-salt" suit. 

"Mr. And Mrs. Farley, the Reverend Mr. Prentice, " said Average Jones inintroduction. 

"The strangers in the wagon?" asked the clergyman quickly. 

"The same, " admitted the woman briefly. 

The Reverend Mr. Prentice turned upon Farley. "Why did you want to stealmy boy away?" he demanded. 

"Didn't want to. Had to, " replied that gentleman succinctly. 

"Let's do this in order, " suggested Average Jones. "The principalactor's story first. Speak up, Bailey. "

"Don't know my own story, " said the boy with a grin. "Only part of it. Mrs. Farley's been awful good to me, takin' care of me an' all that. Butshe wouldn't tell me how I got hurt or where I was when I woke up. "

"Naturally. Well, we must piece it out among us. Now, Bailey, you wereworking over your reel the night the meteor fell, when--"

"What meteor? I don't know anything about a meteor. "

"Of course you don't, " said Average Jones laughing. "Stupid of me. Forthe moment I had forgotten that you were out of the world then. Well, about nine o'clock of the night you got the reel, you looked out of yourwindow and saw a queer light over at the Tuxall place. "

"That's right. But say, Mr. Jones, how do you know about the light?"

"What else but a light could you have seen, on a pitch-black night?"counter-questioned Average Jones with a smile. "And it must have beensomething unusual, or you wouldn't have dropped everything to go to it. "

"That's what!" corroborated the boy. "A kind of flame shot up from theground. Then it spread a little. Then it went out. And there were peoplerunning around it. "

"Ah! Some one must have got careless with the oil, " observed AverageJones. 

"That fool Tuxall!" broke in Farley with an oath. "It was him gummed thewhole game. "

"Mr. Tuxall, I regret to say, " remarked Average Jones, "has left forparts unknown, so the Harwick authorities inform me, probably foreseeinga charge of arson. "

"Arson?" repeated the Reverend Mr. Prentice in astonishment. 

"Of course. Only oil and matches could have made a barn flare up, aftera three-days' rain, as his did. Now, Bailey, to continue. You ran acrossthe fields to the Tuxall place and went around--let me see; the wind hadshifted to the northeast--yes; to the northeast of the barn and quite adistance away. There you saw a man at work in his shirt. "

"Well-I'll-be-jiggered!" said the boy in measured tones. "Where were youhiding, Mr. Jones?"

"Not behind the tree there, anyway, " returned the Ad-Visor with achuckle. "There is a tree there, I suppose?"

"Yes; and there was something alive tied up in it with a rope. "

"Well, not exactly alive, " returned Average Jones, "though the mistakeis a natural one. "

"I tell you, I know, " persisted Bailey. "While Mr. And Mrs. Farley wereworkin' over some kind of a box, I shinned up the tree. "

"Bold young adventurer! And what did you find?"

"One of the limbs was shakin' and thrashin'. I crawled out on it. Iguess it was kind o' crazy me, but I was goin' to find out what was whatif I broke my neck. There was a rope tied to it, and some big thing upabove pullin' and jerkin' at it, tryin' to get away. Pretty soon, Mr. And Mrs. Farley came almost under me. He says: 'Is Tuxall all ready?'and she says: 'He thinks we ought to wait half an hour. The street'llbe full of folks then. Then he says: 'Well, I hate to risk it, but maybeit's better. ' just then, the rope gave a twist and came swingin' over onme, and knocked me right off the limb. I gave a yell and then I landed. Next I knew I was in bed. And that's all. "

"Now I'll take up the wondrous tale, " said Average Jones. "The Farleys, naturally discomfited by Bailey's abrupt and informal arrival, were in aquandary. Here was an inert boy on their hands. He might be dead, whichwould be bad. Or, he might be alive, which would be worse, if they lefthim. "

"How so?" asked the Reverend Mr. Prentice. 

"Why, you see, " explained Average Jones, "they couldn't tell how muchhe might have seen and heard before he made his hasty descent. He mighthave enough information to spoil their whole careful and elaborateplan. "

"But what in the world was their plan?" demanded the minister. 

"That comes later. They took off Bailey's coat and waistcoat, perhapsto see if his back was broken (Farley nodded), and finding him alive, tossed his clothes into the buggy, where Farley had left his own, andcompleted their necessary work. Of course, there was danger that Baileymight come to at any moment and ruin everything. So they worked at topspeed, and left the final performance to Tuxall. In their excitementthey forgot to find out from their accomplice who Bailey was. Consequently, they found themselves presently driving across countrywith an unknown and undesired white elephant of a boy on their hands. One of them conceived the idea of tossing his clothes upon the sea-beachto establish a false clue of drowning, until they could decide what wasto be done with him. In carrying this out they made the mistake whichlighted up the whole trail. "

"Well, I don't see it at all, " said Farley glumly. "How did you ever getto us?"

Average Jones mildly contemplated the mathematical center of hisquestioner. 

"New waistcoat?" he asked. 

Farley glanced down at the outrageous pattern with pride. 

"Yep. Got it last week. "

"Lost the one that came with the pepper-and-salt suit you're wearing?"

"Damn!" exploded Farley in sudden enlightenment. 

"Just so. Your waistcoat got mixed with the boy's clothes, which are ofthe same common pattern, and was tossed out on the beach with his coat. "

"Well, I didn't leave a card in it, did I?" retorted the other. 

"Something just as good. "

"The ad, Tim!" cried the woman. "Don't you remember, you couldn't findthe rough draft you made while we were waiting?"

"That's right, too, " he said. "It was in that vest-pocket. But it didn'thave no name on it. "

"Then, that, " put in the Reverend Peter Prentice, "was the scrawlednonsense--"

"Which you--er--threw into the waste-basket, " drawled Average Jones witha smile. 

"Those were not Bailey's clothes at all?"

"The coat was his; not the waistcoat. His waistcoat may have fallen outof the buggy, or it may be there yet. "

"But what does all this talk of people at work in the dark, and arson, and a mysterious creature tied in a tree lead to?"

"It leads, " said Average Jones, "to a very large rock, much scorched, and with a peculiar carving on it, which now lies imbedded in the earthbeneath Tuxall's barn. "

"If you've seen that, " said Farley, "it's all up. "

"I haven't seen it. I've inferred it. But it's all up, nevertheless. "

"Serves us right, " said the woman disgustedly. "I wish we'd never heardof Tuxall and his line of bunk. "

"Mystification upon mystification!" cried the clergyman. "Will some oneplease give a clue to the maze?"

"In a word, " said Average Jones. "The Harwick meteor. "

"What connection--"

"Pardon me, one moment. The 'live thing' in the tree was a captiveballoon. The box on the ground was a battery. The wire from the batterywas connected with a firework bomb, which, when Tuxall pressed theswitch, exploded, releasing a flaming 'dropper. ' About the time the'dropper' reached the earth Tuxall lighted up his well-oiled barn. AllHarwick, having had its attention attracted by the explosion, and seenthe portent with its own eyes, believed that a huge meteor had firedthe building. So Tuxall and Company had a well attested wonder from theheavens. That's the little plan which Bailey's presence threatened towreck. Is it your opinion that the stars are inhabited, Prentice?"

"What!" cried the minister, gaping. 

"Stars--inhabited--living, sentient creatures. "

"How should I know!"

"You'd be interested to know, though, wouldn't you?"

"Why, certainly. Any one would. "

"Exactly the point. Any one would, and almost any one would pay money tosee, with his own eye the attested evidence of human, or approximatelyhuman, life in other spheres. It was a big stake that Tuxall, Farleyand Company were playing for. Do you begin to see the meaning of the bigprint now?"

"I've heard nothing about big prints, " said the puzzled clergyman. 

"Pardon me, you've heard but you haven't understood. However, to go on, Tuxall and our friends here fixed up a plan on the prospects of a richharvest from public curiosity and credulity. Tuxall planted a big rockunder the barn, fixed it up appropriately with torch and chisel andsent for the Farleys, who are expert firework and balloon people, tocounterfeit a meteor. "

"Amazing!" cried the clergyman. 

"Such a meteor, furthermore, as had never been dreamed of before. If youwere to visit Tuxall's barn, you would undoubtedly find on the boulderunderneath it a carving resembling a human form, a hoax more ambitiousthan the Cardiff Giant. He carted the rock in from some quarry and didthe scorching and carving himself, I suppose. "

"And you discovered all that in a half-day's visit to Harwick?" askedthe Reverend Mr. Prentice incredulously. 

"No, but in half-minute's reading of the 'gibberish' which you threwaway. "

Taking from the desk the reddish roll which he had brought into the roomwith him, he sent the loose end of it wheeling across the floor, untilit lay, fully outspread. In black letters against red, the legend glaredand blared its announcement:

MARVELOUS MAN-LIKE MONSTER!

"Those letters, Mr. Prentice, " pursued the Ad-Visor, "measure just threefeet from top to bottom. The phrase 'three feet high' which so puzzledyou, as combined with the adjectives of great size, was obviously aprinter's direction. All through the smudged 'copy, ' which you threwaway, there run alliterative lines, 'Stupendous Scientific Sensation, ''Veritable Visitor Void' and finally 'Marvelous Man-l--Monster. ' Onlyone trade is irretrievably committed to and indubitably hall-marked byalliteration, the circus trade. You'll recall that Farley insensiblyfell into the habit even in his advertisement; 'lost lad, ' 'retained forransom' and 'Mortimer Morley. ' Therefore I had the combination circusposter, an alleged meteor which burned a barn in a highly suspiciousmanner, and an apparently purposeless kidnapping. The inference wasas simple as it was certain. The two strangers with Tuxall's aid, hadprepared the fake meteor with a view to exploiting the star-man. Baileyhad literally tumbled into the plot. They didn't know how much he hadseen. The whole affair hinged on his being kept quiet. So they tookhim along. All that I had to do, then, was to find the deviser of thethree-foot poster. He was sure to be Bailey's abductor. "

"Say, " said Farley with conviction, "I believe you're the devil's firstcousin. "

"When you left me in Harwick, " said the Reverend Peter Prentice, beforeAverage Jones could acknowledge this flattering surmise, "you said thatstrangers had done the kidnapping. How did you tell they were strangersthen?"

"From the fact that they didn't know who Bailey was, and had toadvertise him, indefinitely, as 'lost lad from Harwick. '"

"And that there were two of them?" pursued the minister. 

"I surmised two minds: one that schemed out the 'planting' of theclothes on the shore; the other, more compassionate, that promulgatedthe advertisement. "

"Finally, then, how could you know that Bailey was injured andunconscious?"

"If he hadn't been unconscious then and for long after, he'd haverevealed his identity to his captors, wouldn't he?" explained theAd-Visor. 

There was a long pause. Then the woman said timidly:

"Well, and now what?"

"Nothing, " answered Average Jones. "Tuxall has got away. Mr. Prenticehas recovered his son. You and Farley have had your lesson. And I--"

"Yes, and you, Mr. Detective-man, " said the woman, as he paused. "Whatdo you get out of it?"

Average Jones cast an affectionate glance at the sprawling legend whichdisfigured his floor. 

"A unique curio in my own special line, " he replied. "An ad which neverhas been published and never will be. That's enough for me. "

There was a double knock at the door, and Mr. Algernon Spofford burstin, wearing a face of gloom. 

"Say, Average, " he began, but broke off with a snort of amazement. "You've found him!" cried. "Hello, Mr. Prentice. Well, Bailey, alive andkicking, eh?"

"Yes; I've found him and them, " replied Average Jones. 

"You've done better than me, then. I've been through the post-officedepartment from the information window here to the postmaster-general inWashington, and nobody'll help me find Mortimer Morley. "

"Then let me introduce him; Algy, this is Mortimer Morley; in lessprivate life Mr. Tim Farley, and his wife, Mrs. Farley, Mr. Spofford. "

"Well, I'll be Billy-be-dashed, " exploded Mr. Spofford. "How did youwork it out, Average?"

"On the previously enunciated principle, " returned Average Jones witha smile, "that when rats leave a sinking ship or a burning buildingthere's usually something behind, worth investigating. "

CHAPTER IX. THE MAN WHO SPOKE LATIN

Mementoes of Average Jones' exploits in his chosen field hang on thewalls of his quiet sanctum. Here the favored visitor may see the twored-ink dots on a dated sheet of paper, framed in with the card of achemist and an advertised sale of lepidopteroe, which drove a famousmillionaire out of the country. Near by are displayed the exploitationof a lure for black-bass, strangely perforated (a man's reason hung onthose pin-pricks), and a scrawled legend which seems to spell "Mercy"(two men's lives were sacrificed to that); while below them, set insomber black, is the funeral notice of a dog worth a million dollars;facing the call for a trombone-player which made a mayor, and themathematical formula which saved a governor. But nowhere does theobserver find any record of one of the Ad-Visor's most curious cases, running back two thousand years; for its owner keeps it in his deskdrawer, whence the present chronicler exhumed it, by accident, one day. Average Jones has always insisted that he scored a failure on this, because, through no possible fault of his own, he was unable to restorea document of the highest historical and literary importance. Of that, let the impartial reader judge. 

It was while Average Jones was waiting for a break of that deadlock ofevents which, starting from the flat-dweller with the poisoned face, finally worked out the strange fate of Telfik Bey, that he sat, onemorning, breakfasting late. The cool and breezy inner portico of theCosmic Club, where small tables overlook a gracious fountain shimmeringwith the dart and poise of goldfish, was deserted save for himself, a summer-engagement star actor, a specialist in carbo-hydrates, and afamous adjuster of labor troubles; the four men being fairly typical ofthe club's catholicity of membership. Contrary to his impeccant habit, Average Jones bore the somewhat frazzled aspect of a man who has been upall night. Further indication of this inhered in the wide yawn, ofwhich he was in mid-enjoyment, when a hand on his shoulder cut short hisecstasy. 

"Sorry to interrupt so valuable an exercise, " said a languid voice. "But--" and the voice stopped. 

"Hello, Bert, " returned the Ad-Visor, looking up at the faultlessly cladslenderness of his occasional coadjutor, Robert Bertram. "Sit down andkeep me awake till the human snail who's hypothetically ministering tomy wants can get me some coffee. "

"What particular phase of intellectual debauchery have you been up tonow?" inquired Bertram, lounging into the chair opposite. 

"Trying to forget my troubles by chasing up a promising lead whichfailed to pan, out. 'Wanted: a Tin Nose, ' sounds pretty good, eh?"

"It is music to my untutored ear, " answered Bertram. 

"But it turned out to be merely an error of the imbecile, or perhapsfacetious printer, who sets up the Trumpeter's personal column. Itshould have read, 'Wanted--a Tea Rose. "'

"Even that seems far from commonplace. "

"Only a code summons for a meeting of the Rosicrucians. I suppose youknow that the order has been revived here in America. "

"Not the true Rosicrucians, surely!" said Bertram. 

"They pretend to be. A stupid lot who make child's play of it, " saidAverage Jones impatiently. "Never mind them. I'd rather know what'son your mind. You made an observation when you came in, rather moreinteresting than your usual output of table-talk. You said 'but' andnothing further. The conjunction 'but, ' in polite grammar, ordinarilyhas a comet-like tail to it. "

"Apropos of polite grammar, do you speak Latin?" asked Bertramcarelessly. 

"Not enough to be gossipy in it. "

"Then you wouldn't care to give a job to a man who can't speak anythingelse?"

"On that qualification alone?"

"No-o, not entirely. He is a good military engineer, I believe. "

"So that's the other end of the 'but, ' is it?" said Average Jones. "Goon. Elaborate. "

Bertram laid before his friend a printed clipping in clear, large type, saying: "When I read this, I couldn't resist the notion that somehowor other it was in your line; pursuit of the adventure of life, and allthat. Let's see what you make of it. "

Average Jones straightened in his chair. 

"Latin!" he said. "And an ad, by the look of it. Can our blind friend, J. Alden Honeywell, have taken to the public prints?"

"Hardly, I think. This is from the Classical Weekly, a Baltimorepublication of small and select patronage. "

"Hm. Looks ra-a-a-ather alluring, " commented Average Jones with aprolonged drawl. "Better than the Rosicrucian fakery, anyhow. "

He bent over the clipping, studying these words. 

L. Livius M. F. Praenestinus, quodlibet in negotium non inhonestum quivictum meream locare ve lim. Litteratus sum; scriptum facere bene scio. Stipendia multa emeritus, scientiarum belli, prasertim muniendi, sumperitus. Hac de re pro me spondebit M. Agrippa. Latine tantum solo. Siquis me velit convenire, quovis die mane adesto in publicis hortisurbis Baltimorianae ad signum apri. 

"Can you make it out?" asked Bertram. 

"Hm-m-m. Well--the general sense. Livius seems to yearn in modern printfor any honest employment, but especially scrapping of the ancientvariety or secretarying. Apply to Agrippa for references. Since hedescribes his conversation as being confined to Latin, I take it hewon't find many jobs reaching out eagerly for him. Anybody who wantshim can find him in the Park of the Wild Boar in Baltimore. That's aboutwhat I make of it. Now, what's his little lay, I wonder. "

"Some lay of Ancient Rome, anyhow, " suggested Bertram. "Association withAgrippa would put him back in the first century, B. C. , wouldn't it?Besides, my informant tells me that Mr. Livius, who seems to have beenan all-around sort of person, helped organize fire brigades for Crassus, and was one of the circle of minor poets who wrote rhapsodies to thefair but frail Clodia's eyebrows, ear-lobes and insteps. "

"Your informant? The man's actually been seen, then?"

"Oh, Yes. He's on view as per advertisement, I understand. "

Average Jones rose and stretched his well-knit frame. "Baltimore willbe hotter than the Place-as-Isn't, " he said plaintively. "Martyrdom byfire! However, I'm off by the five-o'clock train. I'll let you know ifanything special comes of it, Bert. "

Barye's splendid bronze boar couches, semi-shaded, in the center ofMonument Park, Baltimore's social hill-top. There Average lounged andstrolled through the longest hour of a glaring July morning. People cameand went; people of all degrees and descriptions, none of whomsuggested in any particular the first century, B. C. One individualonly maintained any permanency of situation. He was a gaunt, powerful, freckled man of thirty who sprawled on a settee and regarded AverageJones with obvious and amused interest. In time this annoyed theAd-Visor, who stopped short, facing the settee. 

"He's gone, " said the freckled man. 

"Meaning Livius, the Roman?" asked Average Jones. 

"Exactly. Lucius Livius, son of Marcus Praenestinus. "

"Are you the representative of this rather peculiar person, may I ask?"

"It would be a dull world, except for peculiar persons, " observed theman on the settee philosophically. "I've seen very many peculiar personslately by the simple process of coming here day after day. No, I'mnot Mr. Livius' representative. I'm only a town-bound and interestedobserver of his. "

"There you've got the better of me, " said Average Jones. "I was ratheranxious to see him myself. "

The other looked speculatively at the trim, keen-faced young man. "Yetyou do not look like a Latin scholar, " he observed; "if you'll pardonthe comment. "

"Nor do you, " retorted Jones; "if the apology is returnable. "

"I suppose not, " owned the other with a sigh. "I've often thought thatmy classical capacity would gain more recognition if I didn't have askin like Bob Fitzsimmons and hands like Ty Cobb. Nevertheless, I'min and of the department of Latin of Johns Hopkins University. Name, Warren. Sit down. "

"Thanks, " said the other. "Name, Jones. Profession, advertising advisor. Object, curiosity. "

"A. V. R. E. Jones; better known as Average Jones, I believe?"

"'Experto crede! Being dog Latin for 'You seem to know all about it. "'The new-comer eyed his vis-a-vis. "Perhaps you--er--know Mr. RobertBertram, " he drawled. 

"Oculus--the eye--tauri--of the bull. Bull's eye!" said the freckledone, with a grin. "I'd heard of your exploits through Bertram, andthought probably you'd follow the bait contained in my letter to him. "

"Nothing wrong with your nerve-system, is there?" inquired AverageJones with mock anxiety. "Now that I'm here, where is L. Livius. And soforth?"

"Elegantly but uncomfortably housed with Colonel Ridgway Graeme in hisancestral barrack on Carteret Street. "

"Is this Colonel Graeme a friend of yours?"

"Friend and--foe, tried and true. We meet twice a week, usually athis house, to squabble over his method of Latin pronunciation and hisconstruction of the ablative case. He's got a theory of the ablativeabsolute, " said Warren with a scowl, "fit to fetch Tacitus howling fromthe shades. "

"A scholar, then?"

"A very fine and finished scholar, though a faddist of the rankest type. Speaks Latin as readily as he does English. "

"Old?"

"Over seventy. "

"Rich?"

"Not in money. Taxes on his big place keep him pinched; that and hispassion for buying all kinds of old and rare books. He's got, perhapsan income of five thousand, clear, of which about three thousand goes inbook auctions. "

"Any family?"

"No. Lives with two ancient colored servants who look after him. "

"How did our friend from B. C. Connect up with him?"

"Oh, he ran to the old colonel like a chick to its hen. You see, therearen't so very many Latinists in town during the hot weather. Perhapseighteen or twenty in all came from about here and from Washingtonto see the prodigy in 'the Park of the Boar, ' after the advertisementappeared. He wouldn't have anything to do with any of us. Pretended hedidn't understand our kind of Latin. I offered him a place, myself, ata wage of more denarii than I could well afford. I wanted a chance tostudy him. Then came the colonel and fairy grabbed him. So I sent foryou--in my artless professional way. "

"Why such enthusiasm on the part of Colonel Graeme?"

"Simple enough. Livius spoke Latin with in accent which bore out the oldboy's contention. I believe they also agreed on the ablative absolute. "

"Yes--er--naturally, " drawled Average Jones. "Does our early Roman speakpretty ready Latin?"

"He's fairly fluent. Sometimes he stumbles a little on hisconstructions, and he's apt to be--well--monkish--rather than classicalwhen in full course. "

"Doesn't wear the toga virilis, I suppose. "

"Oh, no. Plain American clothes. It's only his inner man that's Roman, of course. He met with bump on the head--this is his story, and he'sgot a the scar to show for it--and when he came to, he'd lost grounda couple of thousand years and returned to his former existence. No English. No memory of who or what he'd been. No money connectionwhatsoever with the living world. "

"Humph! Wonder if he's been a student of Kippling. You remember 'TheGreatest Story in the World; the reincarnated galley slave?' Now as tothis Colonel Graeme; has he ever published?"

"Yes. Two small pamphlets, issued by the Classicist Press, whichpublishes the Classical Weekly. "

"Supporting his fads, I suppose. "

"Right. He devoted one pamphlet to each. "

Average Jones contemplated with absorbed attention an ant which wasmaking a laborious spiral ascent of his cane. Not until it had gained avantage point on the bone handle did he speak again. 

"See here, Professor Warren: I'm a passionate devotee of the Latintongue. I have my deep and dark suspicions of our present modes ofpronunciation, all three of 'em. As for the ablative absolute, itsreconstruction and regeneration have been the inspiring principle of mystudious manhood. Humbly I have sat at the feet of Learning, enshrinedin the Ridgway Graeme pamphlets. I must meet Colonel Graeme--afterreading the pamphlets. I hope they're not long. "

Warren frowned. "Colonel Graeme is a gentleman and my friend, Mr. Jones, " he said with emphasis. "I won't have him made a butt. "

"He shan't be, by me, " said Average Jones quietly. "Has it perhapsstruck you, as his friend, that--er--a close daily association with thepsychic remnant of a Roman citizen might conceivably be non-conducive tohis best interest?"

"Yes, it has. I see your point. You want to approach him on his weakside. But, have you Latin enough to sustain the part? He's shrewd as aweasel in all matters of scholarship, though a child whom any one couldfool in practical affairs. "

"No; I haven't, " admitted Average Jones. "Therefore, I'm a mute. A shockin early childhood paralyzed my centers of speech. I talk to you by signlanguage, and you interpret. "

"But I hardly know the deaf-mute alphabet. "

"Nor I. But I'll waggle my fingers like lightning if he says anything tome requiring an answer, and you'll give the proper reply. Does ColonelGraeme implicitly credit the Romanism of his guest?"

"He does, because he wants to. To have an educated man of the classicperiod of the Latin tongue, a friend of Caesar, an auditor of Ciceroand a contemporary of Virgil, Horace and Ovid come back and speak inthe accent he's contended for, make a powerful support for his theories. He's at work on a supplementary thesis already. "

"What do the other Latin men who've seen Livius, think of themetempsychosis claim?"

"They don't know. Livius explained his remote antecedents only afterhe had got Colonel Graeme's private ear. The colonel has kept it quiet. 'Don't want a rabble of psychologists and soul-pokers worrying him todeath, ' he says. "

"Making it pretty plain sailing for the Roman. Well, arrange to take methere as soon as possible. "'

At the Graeme house, Average Jones was received with simple courtesyby a thin rosy-cheeked old gentleman with a dagger-like imperial and adreamy eye, who, on Warren's introduction, made him free of the unkemptold place's hospitality. They conversed for a time, Average Jonesmaintaining his end with nods and gestures, and (ostensibly) through thedigital mediumship of his sponsor. 

Presently Warren said to the host:

"And where is your visitor from the past?"

"Prowling among my books, " answered the old gentleman. 

"Are we not going to see him?"

The colonel looked a little embarrassed. "The fact is, Professor Warren, Livius has taken rather an aversion to you. "

"I'm sorry. How so?"

A twinkle of malice shone in the old scholar's eye. "He says your Latinaccent frets his nerves, " he explained. 

"In that case, " said Warren, obeying a quick signal from his accomplice, "I'll stroll in the garden, while you present Mr. Jones to Livius. "

Colonel Graeme led the way to a lofty wing, once used as a drawing-room, but now the repository for thousands of books, which not only filled theshelves but were heaped up in every corner. 

"I must apologize for this confusion, sir, " said the host. "No one ispermitted to arrange my books but myself. And my efforts, I fear, serveonly to make confusion more confounded. There are four other rooms evenmore chaotic than this. "

At the sound of his voice a man who had been seated behind a tumulusof volumes rose and stood. Average Jones looked at him keenly. He wasperhaps forty-five years of age, thin and sinewy, with a close-shavenface, pale blue eyes, and a narrow forehead running high into a mop ofgrizzled locks. Diagonally across the front part of the scalp a scarcould be dimly perceived through the hair. Average Jones glanced atthe stranger's hands, to gain, if possible, some hint of his formeremployment. With his faculty of swift observation, he noticed that thelong, slender fingers were not only mottled with dust, but also scuffed, and, in places, scarified, as if their owner had been hurriedly handlinga great number of books. 

Colonel Graeme presented the new-comer in formal Latin. He bowed. Thescarred man made a curious gesture of the hand, addressing Average Jonesin an accent which, even to the young man's long-unaccustomed cars, sounded strange and strained. 

"Di illi linguam astrinxere; mutus est, " said Colonel Graeme, indicatingthe younger man, and added a sentence in sonorous metrical Greek. 

Average Jones recalled the Aeschylean line. "Well, though 'a great oxhath stepped on my tongue, ' it hasn't trodden out my eyes, praises be!"said he to himself as he caught the uneasy glance of the Roman. 

By way of allaying suspicion, he scribbled upon a sheet of paper a fewcomplimentary Latin sentences, in which Warren had sedulously coachedhim for the occasion, and withdrew to the front room, where he waspresently joined by the Johns Hopkins man. Fortunately, the colonel gavethem a few moments together. 

"Arrange for me to come here daily to study in the library, " whisperedJones to the Latin professor. 

The other nodded. 

"Now, sit tight, " added Jones. 

He stepped, soft-footed, on the thick old rug, across to the librarydoor and threw it open. Just inside stood Livius, an expressionof startled anger on his thin face. Quickly recovering himself, heexplained, in his ready Latin, that he was about to enter and speak tohis patron. 

"Shows a remarkable interest in possible conversation, " whispered Jones, on his withdrawal, "for a man who understands no English. Also doesme the honor to suspect me. He must have been a wily chap--in theConsulship of Plancus. "

Before leaving, Average Jones had received from Colonel Graeme a generalinvitation to spend as much time as he chose, studying among the books. The old man-servant, Saul, had orders to admit him at any hour. Hereturned to his hotel to write a courteous note of acknowledgment. 

Many hours has Average Jones spent more tediously than those passed inthe cool seclusion of Colonel Ridgway Graeme's treasure-house of print. He burrowed among quaint accumulations of forgotten classics. He dippedwith astonishment into the savage and ultra-Rabelaisian satire of VonHutter's "Epistola, Obscurorum Virorumf" which set early sixteenthcentury Europe a-roar with laughter at the discomfited monks; and hecleansed himself from that tainted atmosphere in the fresh air and freeEnglish of a splendid Audubon "first"--and all the time he was consciousthat the Roman watched, watched, watched. More than, once Liviusoffered aid, seeking to apprise himself of the supposed mute's line ofinvestigation; but the other smilingly fended him off. At the end offour days, Average Jones had satisfied himself that if Livius wereseeking anything in particular, he had an indefinite task before him, for the colonel's bound treasures were in indescribable confusion. Apparently he had bought from far and near, without definite theme orpurpose. As he bought he read, and having read, cast aside; and where avolume fell, there it had license to lie. No cataloguer had ever soughtto restore order to that bibliographic riot. To seek any given bookmeant a blind voyage, without compass or chart, throughout the mingledcenturies. 

Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the hugebook-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copious notes. Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered. But onemorning the attitude seemed, to the listening Ad-Visor, to be reversed. Livius, in the far corner of the room, was speaking in a low tone. Tojudge from the older man's impatient manner the Roman was interruptinghis host's current of queries with interrogations of his own. AverageJones made a mental note, and, in conference with Warren that evening, asked him to ascertain from Colonel Graeme whether Livius's inquirieshad indicated a specific interest in any particular line of reading. 

On the following day, however, an event of more immediate importoccupied his mind. He had spent the morning in the up-stairs library, atthe unevadable suggestion of Colonel Graeme, while the colonel and hisRoman collogued below. Coming down about noon, Average Jones entered thecolonel's small study just in time to see Livius, who was alone in theroom, turn away sharply from the desk. His elbow was held close to hisribs in a peculiar manner. He was concealing something under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness, Average Jones stumbled against him inpassing. Livius drew away, his high forehead working with suspicion. The Ad-Visor's expression of blank apology, eked out with a bow anda grimace, belied the busy-working mind within. For, in the moment'scontact, he had heard the crisp rustle of paper from beneath theill-fitting coat. 

What paper had the man from B. C. Taken furtively from his benefactor'stable? It must be large; otherwise he could have readily thrust it intohis pocket. No sooner was Livius out of the room than Average Jonesscanned the desk. His face lighted with a sudden smile. Colonel Graemenever read a newspaper; boasted, in fact, that he wouldn't have oneabout the place. But, as Average Jones distinctly recalled, he had, himself, that very morning brought, in a copy of the Globe and droppedit into the scrap basket near the writing-table. It was gone. Livius hadtaken it. 

"If he's got the newspaper-reading habit, " said Average Jones tohimself, "I'll set a trap for him. But Warren must furnish the bait. "

He went to look up his aide. The conference between them was long andexhaustive, covering the main points of the case from the beginning. 

"Did you find out from Colonel Graeme, " inquired Average Jones, "whetherLivius, affected any particular brand of literature?"

"Yes. He seems to be specializing on late seventeenth century Britishclassicism. Apparently he considers that the flower of Britishscholarship of that time wrote a very inferior kind of dog Latin. "

"Late seventeenth century Latinity, " commented Average Jones. "That--er--gives, us a fair start. Now as to the body-servant. "

"Old Saul? I questioned him about strange callers. He said he rememberedonly two, besides an occasional peddler or agent. They were looking forwork. "

"What kind of work?"

"Inside the house. One wanted to catalogue the library. "

"What did he look like?"

"Saul says he wore glasses and a worse tall hat than the colonel's andhad a full beard. "

"And the other?"

"Bookbinder and repairer. Wanted to fix up Colonel Graeme's collection. Youngish, smartly dressed, with a small waxed moustache. "

"And our Livius is clean-shaven, " murmured Average Jones. "How longapart did they call?"

"About two weeks. The second applicant came on the day of the lastsnowfall. I looked that up. It was March 27. "

"Do you know, Warren, " observed Average Jones, "I sometimes think thatpart of your talents, at least, are wasted in a chair of Latin. "

"Certainly, there is more excitement in this hide-and-seek game, as youplay it, than in the pursuits of a musty pedant, " admitted the other, crackling his large knuckles. "But when are we going to spring uponfriend Livius and strip him of his fake toga?"

"That's the easiest part of it. I've already caught him filling afountain-pen as if he'd been brought up on them, and humming thespinning chorus from The Flying Dutchman; not to mention the lifting ofmy newspaper. "

"Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit, " murmured Warren. 

"No. As you say, no fellow can be on the job all the time. But ourproblem is not to catch Livius, but to find out what it is he's beenafter for the last three months. "

"Three months? You're assuming that it was he who applied for work inthe library. "

"Certainly. And when he failed at that he set about a very carefullydeveloped scheme to get at Colonel Graeme's books anyway. By inquirieshe found out the old gentleman's fad and proceeded to get in trainingfor it. You don't know, perhaps, that I have a corps of assistants whoclip, catalogue and file all unusual advertisements. Here is one whichthey turned up for me on my order to send me any queer educationaladvertisements: 'Wanted--Daily lessons in Latin speech from competentSpanish scholar. Write, Box 347, Banner office. ' That is from the NewYork Banner of April third, shortly after the strange caller's secondabortive attempt to get into the Graeme library. "

"I suppose our Livius figured out that Colonel Graeme's theory of accentwas about what a Spaniard would have. But he couldn't have learned allhis Latin in four months. "

"He didn't. He was a scholar already; an accomplished one, who wentwrong through drink and became a crook, specializing in rare books andprints. His name is Enderby; you'll find it in the Harvard catalogue. He's supposed to be dead. My assistant traced him through hisSpanish-Latin teacher, a priest. "

"But even allowing for his scholarship, he must have put in a deal ofwork perfecting himself in readiness of speech and accent. "

"So he did. Therefore the prize must be big. A man of Enderby's caliberdoesn't concoct a scheme of such ingenuity, and go into bondage with it, for nothing. Do you belong to the Cosmic Club?"

The assistant professor stared. "No, " he said. 

"I'd like to put you up there. One advantage of membership is that itsroster includes experts in every known line of erudition, from scarabsto skeeing. For example, I am now going to telegraph for aid from oldMillington, who seldom misses a book auction and is a human bibliographyof the wanderings of all rare volumes. I'm going to find out from himwhat British publication of the late seventeenth century in Latin isvery valuable; also what volumes of that time have changed hands in thelast six months. "

"Colonel Graeme went to a big book auction in New York early in March, "volunteered Warren, "but he told me he didn't pick up anything ofparticular value. "

"Then it's something he doesn't know about and Livius does. I'm going totake advantage of our Roman's rather un-B. -C. -like habit of reading thedaily papers by trying him out with this advertisement. "

Average Jones wrote rapidly and tossed the result to his coadjutor whoread:

 "LOST--Old book printed in Latin. Buff leather binding, a little faded ('It's safe to be that, ' explained Average Jones). No great value except to owner. Return to Colonel Ridgway Graeme, 11 Carteret Street, and receive reward. "

The advertisement made its appearance in big type on the front pages ofthe Baltimore paper of the following day. That evening Average Jones metWarren, for dinner, with a puckered brow. 

"Did Livius rise to the bait?" asked the scholar. 

"Did he!" chuckled Average Jones. "He's been nervous as a cat all dayand hardly has looked at the library. But what puzzles me is this. " Heexhibited a telegram from New York. 

"Millington says positively no book of that time and description anygreat value. Enderby at Barclay auction in March and made row over somebook which he missed because it was put up out of turn in catalogue. Barclay auctioneer thinks it was one of Percival privately bound books1680-1703. Am anonymous book of Percival library, De Meritis LibrorumBritannorum, was sold to Colonel Graeme for $47, a good price. When do Iget in on this?

"(Signed), ROBERT BERTRAM. "

"I know that treatise, " said Warren. "It isn't particularly rare. "

Average Jones stared at the telegram in silence. Finally he drawled:"There are--er--books and--er--books--and--er--things in books. Waithere for me. "

Three hours later he reappeared with collar wilted, but spirits elate, and abruptly announced:

"Warren, I'm a cobbler. "

"A what?"

"A cobbler. Mend your boots, you know. "

"Are you in earnest?"

"Certainly. Haven't you ever remarked that a serious-minded earnestnessalways goes with cobbling? Though I'm not really a practical cobbler, but a proprietary one. Our friend, Bertram, will dress and act thepractical part. I've wired him and he's replied, collect, accepting thejob. You and I will be in the background. "

"Where?"

"NO. 27 Jasmine Street. Not a very savory locality. Why is it, Warren, that the beauty of a city street is generally in inverse ratio to thepoetic quality of its name? There I've hired the shop and stock of Mr. Hans Fichtel for two days, at the handsome rental of ten dollars perday. Mr. Fichtel purposes to take a keg of beer a-fishing. I think twodays will be enough. "

"For the keg?"

"For that noble Roman, Livius. He'll be reading the papers pretty keenlynow. And in to-morrow's, he'll find this advertisement. "

Average Jones read from a sheet of paper which he took from his pocket:

 "FOUND--Old book in foreign language, probably Latin, marked 'Percival. ' Owner may recover by giving satisfactory description of peculiar and obscure feature and refunding for advertisement. Fichtel, 27 Jasmine Street. "

"What is the peculiar and obscure feature, Jones?" asked Warren. 

"I don't know. "

"How do you know there is any?"

"Must be something peculiar about the book or Enderby wouldn't putin four months of work on the chance of stealing it. And it must beobscure, otherwise the auctioneer would have spotted it. "

"Sound enough!" approved the other. "What could it be? Some interpolatedpage?"

"Hardly. I've a treatise in my pocket on seventeenth centurybook-making, which I'm going to study to-night. Be ready for an earlystart to meet Bertram. "

That languid and elegant gentleman arrived by the first morning train. He protested mightily when he was led to the humble shoe-shop. Heprotested more mightily when invited to don a leather apron and smudgehis face appropriately to his trade. His protests, waxing vehement andeventually profane, as he barked his daintily-kept fingers, in rehearsalfor giving a correct representation of an honest artisan cobbling aboot, died away when Average Jones explained to him that on pretense ofhaving found a rare book, he was to worm out of a cautious and probablysuspicious criminal the nature of some unique and hidden feature of thevolume. 

"Trust me for diplomacy, " said Bertram airily. 

"I will because I've got to, " retorted Average Jones. "Well, get towork. To you the outer shop: to Warren and me this rear room. And, remember, if you hear me whetting a knife, that means come at once. "

Uncomfortably twisted into a supposedly professional posture, Bertramwrought with hammer and last, while putting off, with lame, blind andhalting, excuses, such as came to call for their promised footgear. Bya triumph of tact he had just disposed of a rancid-tongued femalewho demanded her husband's boots, a satisfactory explanation, or thearbitrament of the lists, when the bell tinkled and the two watchers inthe back room heard a nervous, cultivated voice say:

"Is Mr. Fichtel here?"

"That's me, " said Bertram, landing an agonizing blow on his thumb-nail. 

"You advertised that you had found an old book. "

"Yes, sir. Somebody left it in the post-office. "

"Ah; that must have been when I went to mail some letters to New York, "said the other glibly. "From the advertised description, the book iswithout doubt mine. Now as to the reward--"

"Excuse me, but you wouldn't expect me to give it up without anyidentification, sir?"

"Certainly not. It was the De Meritis Libror--"

"I can't read Latin, sir. "

"But you could make that much out, " said the visitor with risingexasperation. "Come; if it's a matter of the reward--how much?"

"I wouldn't mind having a good reward; say ten dollars. But I want tobe sure it's your book. There's something about it that you could easilytell me sir, for any one could see it. "

"A very observing shoemaker, " commented the other with a slight sneer. "You mean the--the half split cover?"

"Swish-swish; whish-swish, " sounded from the rear room. 

"Excuse me, " said Bertram, who had not ceased from his pretended work. "I have to get a piece of leather. "

He stepped into the back room where Average Jones, his face alight, heldup a piece of paper upon which he had hurriedly scrawled:

"Mss. Bound into cover. Get it out of him. Tell him you've a brother whois a Latin scholar. "

Bertram nodded, caught up a strip of calf-skin and returned. 

"Yes, sir, " he said, "the split cover and what's inside?"

The other started. "You didn't get it out?" he cried. "You didn't tearit!"

"No, sir. It's there safe enough. But some of it can be made out. "

"You said you didn't read Latin. "

"No, sir; but I have a brother that went through the Academy. He readsa little. "' This was thin ice, but Bertram went forward with assumedassurance. "He thinks the manuscript is quite rare. Oh, Fritz! Come in. "

"Any letter of Bacon's is rare, of course, " returned the otherimpatiently. "Therefore, I purpose offering you fifty dollars reward. "

He looked up as Average Jones entered. The young man's sleeves wererolled up, his face was generously smudged, and a strip of cobbler's waxbeneath the tipper lip, puffed and distorted the firm line of his mouth. Further, his head was louting low on his neck, so that the visitor gotno view sufficient for recognition. 

"Lord Bacon's letter--er--must be pretty rare, Mister, " he drawledthickly. "But a letter--er--from Lord Bacon--er--about Shakespeare--thatought to be worth a lot of money. "

Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisiveshrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Onlyone imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopherscholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief of Enderby'scalibre. Enderby's expression told that the shot was a true one. As forBertram, he had dropped his shoemaker's knife and his shoemaker's role. 

"Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of IgnatiusDonnelly!"

The visitor drew back. Warren's gaunt frame appeared in the doorway. Jones' head lifted. 

"It ought to be as--er--unique, " he drawled, "as an--er--Ancient Romanspeaking perfect English. "

Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the bench wherethe false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward Average Jones. Atthe moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunched into a highlycompetent fist, flicked across and caught the assailant under theear. Enderby, alias Livius, fell as if smitten by a cestus. As his armtouched the floor, Average Jones kicked unerringly at the wrist and theknife flew and tinkled in a far corner. Bertram, with a bound, landed onthe fallen man's chest and pinned him. 

"'Did he get you, Average?" he cried. 

"Not--er--this time. Pretty good--er--team work, " drawled the Ad-Visor. "We've got our man for felonious assault, at least. "

Enderby, panting under Bertram's solid knee, blinked and struggled. 

"No use, Livius, " said Average Jones. "Might as well quiet down andconfess. Ease up a little on him, Bert. Take a look at that scar of hisfirst though. "

"Superficial cut treated with make-up paint; a clever job, " pronouncedBertram after a quick examination. 

"As I supposed, " said Average Jones. 

"Let me in on the deal, " pleaded Livius. "That letter is worth tenthousand, twelve thousand, fifteen thousand dollars--anything you wantto ask, if you find the right purchaser. And you can't manage it withoutme. Let me in. "

"Thinks we're crooks, too?" remarked Average Jones. "Exactly what's inthis wonderful letter?"

"It's from Bacon to the author of the book, who wrote about 1610. Baconprophesies that Shakespeare, 'this vagabond and humble mummer' wouldoutshine and outlive in fame all the genius of his time. That's all Icould make out by loosening the stitches. "

"Well, that is worth anything one could demand, " said Warren in asomewhat awed tone. 

"Why didn't you get the letter when you were examining it at the auctionroom?" inquired Average Jones. 

"Some fool of a binder had overlooked the double cover, and sewed it in. I noticed it at the auction, gummed the opening together while noone was watching, and had gone to get cash to buy the book; but theauctioneer put it up out of turn and old Graeme got it. Bring it to meand I'll show you the 'pursed' cover. Many of the Percival books werebound that way. "

"We've never had it, nor seen it, "' replied Average Jones. "Theadvertisement was only a trap into which you stepped. "

Enderby's jaw dropped. "Then it's still at the Graeme house, " he cried, beating on the floor with his free hand. "Take me back there!"

"Oh, we'll take you, " said Warren grimly. 

Close-packed among them in a cab, they drove him back to CarteretStreet. Colonel Ridgway Graeme was at home and greeted them courteously. 

"You've found Livius, " he said, with relief. "I had begun to fear forhim. "

"Colonel Graeme, " began Average Jones, "you have--"

"What! Speech!" cried the old gentleman. "And you a mute! What does thismean?"

"Never mind him, " broke in Enderby Livius. "There's something moreimportant. "

But the colonel had shrunk back. "English from you, Livius!" he cried, setting his hand to his brow. 

"All will be explained in time, Colonel, " Warren assured him. "Meanwhile, you have a document of the utmost importance and value. Doyou remember buying one of the Percival volumes at the Barclay auction?"

The collector drew his brows down in an effort to remember. 

"An octavo, in fairly good condition?" he asked. 

"Yes, yes!" cried Enderby eagerly. "Where is it? What did you do withit?"

"It was in Latin--very false Latin. " The four men leaned forward, breathless. "Oh, I remember. It slipped from my pocket and fell into theriver as I was crossing the ferry to Jersey. "

There was a dead, flat, stricken silence. Then Average Jones turnedhollow eyes upon Warren. 

"Professor, " he said, with a rueful attempt at a smile, "what's the pastparticiple, passive, plural, of the Latin verb, 'to sting'?"

CHAPTER X. THE ONE BEST BET

"Morrison has jammed the Personal Liberty bill through, " said Waldemar, scrawling a head on his completed editorial, with one eye on the clock, which pointed to midnight. 

"That was to be expected, wasn't it?" asked Average Jones. 

"Oh, yes, " replied the editor-owner of the Universal in his heavy bass. "And now the governor announces he will veto it. "

"Thereby bringing the whole power of the gambling ring down on him likean avalanche. "

"Naturally. Morrison has declared open war against 'Pharisee Phil, ' ashe calls Governor Arthur. Says he'll pass the bill over his veto. In hisheart he knows he can't do it. Still, he's a hard fighter. "

Average Jones tipped his chair back against the wall of the editorialsanctum. "What do you suppose, " he inquired with an air of philosophicspeculation, "that the devil will do with Carroll Morrison's soul whenhe gets it? Deodorize it?"

"Harsh words, young sir! Harsh words and treasonable against one ofour leading citizens; multimillionaire philanthropist, social leader, director of banks, insurance companies and railroads, and emperor of therace-track, the sport of kings. "

"The sport of kings-maintained on the spoils of clerks, " retortedAverage Jones. "'To improve the breed of horses, ' if you please! To makethieves of men and harlots of women, because Carroll Morrison musthave his gambling-game dividends! And now he has our 'representative'legislature working for him to that honorable end!"

"Man to see you, Mr. Waldemar, " said an office boy, appearing at thedoor. 

"Too late, " grunted the editor. 

"He says it's very particular, sir, and to tell you it's something Mr. Morrison is interested in. "

"Morrison, eh? All right. Just step into the inner office, will you, Jones? Leave the door open. There might be something interesting. "

Hardly had Average Jones found a chair in the darkened office whenthe late caller appeared. He was middle-aged, pursy, and dressed withslap-dash ostentation. His face was bloated and seared with excesses. But it was not intoxication that sweated on his forehead and quiveredin his jaw. It was terror. He slumped into the waiting chair and mouthedmutely at the editor. 

"Well?" The bullet-like snap of the interrogation stung the man intobabbling speech. 

"'S like this, Misser Wald'mar. 'S like this. Y-y-yuh see, 's like this. Fer Gawsake, kill out an ad for me!"

"What? In to-morrow's paper? Nonsense! You're too late, even if I wishedto do it. "

The visitor stood up and dug both hands into his side pockets. Heproduced, first a binocular, which, with a snarl, he flung upon thefloor. Before it had stopped bumping, there fluttered down upon the seatof his chair a handful of greenbacks. Another followed, and another, and another. The bills toppled and spread, and some of them slid to thefloor. Still the man delved. 

"There!" he panted at last. "Money talks. There's the stuff. Count it. Eighteen hundred if there's a dollar. More likely two thou. If thatain't enough, make your own price. I don't care what it is. Make it, Misser. Put a price on it. "

There was something loathsome and obscene in the creature's gibberingflux of words. The editor leaned forward. 

"Bribery, eh?" he inquired softly. 

The man flinched from the tone. "It ain't bribery, is it, to ast you torout out jus' one line from an ad an' pay you for the trouble. My ownad, too. If it runs, it's my finish. I was nutty when I wrote it. FerGawsake, Misser--"

"Stop it! You say Morrison sent you here?"

"No, sir. Not exac'ly. 'S like this, M' Wald'mar. I hadda get to yousome way. It's important to Misser Morrison, too. But he don't know Icome. He don't know nothing about it. Oh, Gaw! If he finds out--"

"Put that money back in your pockets. "

With an ashen face of despair, the man obeyed. As he finished, he beganto sag at the joints. Slowly he slackened down until he was on hisknees, an abject spectacle of disgust. 

"Stand up, " ordered Waldemar. 

"Liss'n; liss'n t' me, " moaned the man. "I'll make it three thousand. Fi' thou--"

"Stand up!"

The editor's hearty grip on his coat collar heaved the creature tohis feet. For a moment he struggled, panting, then spun, helplessand headlong from the room, striking heavily against the passage walloutside. There was a half-choked groan; then his footsteps slumped awayinto silence. 

"Ugh!" grunted Waldemar. "Come back, Jones. "

Average Jones reentered. "Have you no curiosity in your composition?" heasked. 

"Not much--having been reared in the newspaper business. "

Stooping, Average Jones picked up the glasses which the man had thrownon the floor and examined them carefully. "Rather a fine instrument, " heobserved. "Marked N. K. I think I'll follow up the owner. "

"You'll never find him now. He has too much start. "

"Not at all. When a man is in his state of abject funk, it's ten to onehe lands at the nearest bar. Wait for me. "

In fifteen minutes Average Jones was back. There was a curiousexpression on his face as he nodded an assent to his friend's inquiringeyebrows. 

"Where?" asked Waldemar. 

"On the floor of a Park Row saloon. "

"Dead drunk, eh?"

"No--er; not--er--drunk. Dead. "

Waldemar stiffened in his chair. "Dead!" he repeated. 

"Poison, probably. The ad was his finish, as he said. The next thing isto find it. "

"The first edition will be down any minute now. But it'll take somefinding. Why, counting 'classified, ' we're carrying fifteen hundred adsin every issue. With no clue to the character of this one--"'

"Plenty of clue, " said Average Jones suavely. "You'll find it on thesporting page, I think. "

"Judging from the man's appearance? Rather far-fetched, isn't it?"

"Judging from a pair of very fine binoculars, a mention of CarrollMorrison's name, and, principally, some two thousand dollars in a hugeheap. "

"I don't quite see where that leads. "

"No? The bills must have been mostly ones and twos. Those are abook-maker's takings. The binocular is a racing-man's glass. Our latefriend used the language of the track. I think we'll find him on pagenine. "

"Try, " said Waldemar, handing him a paper still spicy with the keen odorof printer's ink. 

Swiftly the Ad-Visor's practiced eye ran over the column. It checkedat the "offer" of a notorious firm of tipsters who advertised to sell"inside information" on the races to their patrons. As a special lure, they were, on this day, letting the public in on a few particularly"good things" free. 

"There you are, " said Average Jones, pointing out the advertisement. 

To his astonishment, Waldemar noted that his friend's indicatoryfinger shook a little. Normally, Average Jones was the coolest and mostcontrolled of men. 

"Noble and Gale's form ad, " he observed. "I see nothing unusual inthat. "

"Yet--er--I fancy it's quite important--er--in its way. "

The editor stared. "When you talk like a bored Britisher, Average, " heremarked, "there's sure to be something in the air. What is it?"

"Look at the last line. "

Again Waldemar turned to the paper. "'One Best Bet, "' he read. "'Thatthe Pharisee will never finish. ' Well?"

"That the Pharisee will never finish, " repeated Average Jones. "If thePharisee is a horse, the line becomes absurd at once. How could anyone know that a horse would fail to finish in a race? But ifit--er--referred--er--to a man, an official known--er--as PhariseePhil--"

"Wait!" Waldemar had jumped to his feet. A thrill, increasing andpulsating through the floor beneath them, shook the building. The editorjumped for the telephone. 

"Composing room; quick! Give me the foreman. Hello! That you, Corrigan?Stop the presses. . . I don't care if we miss every train in thecountry. . . Don't answer back. This is Mr. Waldemar. Stop the presses!"

The thrill waned and ceased. At the telephone, Waldemar continued: "Lookup the Noble and Gale tip ad, page nine, column six. Kill the lastline, the One Best Bet. . . Don't ask me how. Chisel it out. Burn it out. Dynamite it out. But kill it. After that's done, print. . . . Hello; Dan?Send the sporting editor in here in a hurry. "

"Good work, " said Average Jones. "They'll never know how near their ideaof removing Governor Arthur came to being boasted of in plain print. "

Waldemar took his huge head in his hands and rocked it gently. "It'son, " he said. "And right-side-before. Yet, it tries to tell me that aman, plotting to murder the governor, advertises the fact in my paper!I'll get a new head. "

"Keep that one for a while, " advised Average Jones. "It may be betterthan you think. Anyway, here's the ad. And down yonder is the dead manwhom it killed when he failed to kill it. So much is real. "

"And here's Bendig, " said the other, as the sporting editor entered. "Any such horse as 'The Pharisee, ' Bendig?"

"No, sir. I suppose you mean that Noble and Gale ad. I saw it in proof. Some of Nick Karboe's funny work, I expect. "

"Nick Karboe; N. K. , " murmured Average Jones, laying a hand on theabandoned field glass. "Who is this man Karboe, Mr. Bendig?"

"Junior partner of Noble and Gale. He puts out their advertising. "

"Any connection whatever with Mr. Carroll Morrison?"

"Why, yes. Before he went to pieces he used to be Mr. Morrison'sconfidential man, and lately he's been doing some lobbying for theassociation. I understood he'd quit it again. "

"Quit what?" asked Waldemar. "Drink?"

"Worse. The white stuff. Coke. "

Average Jones whistled softly. "That explains it all, " he said. "Acocaine fiend on a debauch becomes a mental and moral imbecile. It wouldbe perfectly in character that he should boast of a projected crime. "

"Very well, " said Waldemar, after the sporting editor had left, "but youdon't really connect Morrison with this?"

"Don't I! At least I propose to try. See here, Waldemar; two months agoat a private dinner, Morrison made a speech in which he said that menwho interfered with the rights of property, like Governor Arthur, were no better than anarchists and ought to be handled accordingly. Therefore, I don't think that a plan--a safe one, of course--to put'Pharisee Phil' away would greatly disturb our friend's distortedconscience. You see, the governor has laid impious hands on Morrison'sholy of holies, the dividend. By the way, where is Governor Arthur?"

"On the train for this city. He's to review the parade at the HarrisoniaCentennial, and unveil the statute to-morrow night; that is, to-night, to be accurate. "

"A good opportunity, " murmured Average Jones. 

"What! In the sight of a hundred thousand people?"

"That might be the very core of the opportunity. And at night. "

"If you feel certain, it's a case for the police, isn't it?"

"Hardly! The gambling gang control the police, wholly. They woulddestroy the trail at once. "

"Then why not warn the governor?"

"I don't know him. "

"Suppose I make an appointment to take you to see him in the morning?"

This was agreed upon. At ten o'clock Governor Arthur received them athis hotel, greeting Average Jones with flattering warmth. 

"You're the amateur detective who scared the Honorable William Linderout of the mayoralty nomination, " said he, shaking hands. "What are yougoing to do to me?"

"Give you some racing news to read, Governor. "

The governor took the advertisement proof and read it carefully. Characteristically, he then re-read it throughout. 

"You think this is meant for me?" he asked, handing it back. 

"I do. You're not exactly what one would call popular with the racingcrowd, you know, Governor. "

"Mr. Morrison, in the politest manner in the world, has allowed me tosurmise as much, " said the other, smiling broadly. "A very polishedperson, Mr. Morrison. He can make threats of extinction--political, ofcourse--more delicately than any other subtle blackmailer I have evermet. And I have met several in my time. "

"If this were merely political extinction, which I fancy you can takecare of yourself, I shouldn't be taking up your time, sir. "

"My dear Jones--" a friendly hand fell on the visitor's shoulder--"Igravely fear that you lack the judicial mind. It's a great thing tolack--at times. " Governor Arthur's eyes twinkled again, and his visitorwondered whence had come his reputation as a dry, unhumorous man. "As toassassination, " he pursued, "I'm a sort of Christian Scientist. The bestprotection is a profound conviction that you're safe. That reacts on themind of any would-be assassin. To my mind, my best chance of safety liesin never thinking of danger. "

"Then, " said Waldemar, "any attempt to persuade you against appearing atHarrisonia to-night would be time wasted. "

"Absolutely, my dear Waldemar. But don't think that I'm not appreciativeof your thoughtfulness and that of Mr. Jones. "

"What is the program of the day, Governor?" asked Average Jones. 

"Rather a theatrical one. I'm to ride along Harrison Avenue to thereviewing stand, in the old coach-of-state of the Harrison family, alofty old ark, high as a circus wagon, which has been patched up for theoccasion. Just before I reach the reviewing stand, a silk cord is to behanded to me and I am to pull the veil from the great civic statue withthat, as, I move on. "

"Then I think that Mr. Waldemar and I will look the ground over. Couldwe get you by telephone, sir, if necessary?"

"Any time up to seven o'clock. "

"What do you think of the chance of their passing the bill over yourveto?" asked Waldemar. 

"They are spending money as it has never been spent before, " repliedGovernor Arthur. "I'll admit to you, Waldemar, that if I could find anylegitimate method of calling Morrison off, I would not scruple to useit. It is, of course, Morrison's money that we are fighting. "

"Possibly--er--that, too--er--might be done, " drawled Average Jones. 

The governor looked at him sharply. "After the Linder affair, Mr. Jones, " said he, "I would follow you far. Call my secretary at any time, if you want me. "

"Now to look over the line of parade, " said Average Jones as he andWaldemar emerged from the hotel. 

Half an hour's ride brought them to the lively suburban city ofHarrisonia, gay with flags and bunting. From the railroad station, wherethe guest of honor was to be met by the old coach, to the spot where thecivic statue awaited its unveiling at his hands, was about half a milealong Harrison Avenue, the principal street. The walk along this streetdeveloped nothing of interest to Average Jones until they reached thestatue. Here he paused to look curiously at a number of square platformsbuilt out from windows in the business blocks. 

"For flash-light outfits, " explained Waldemar. "One of them is ourpaper's. "

"Flash-lights, eh?" said Average Jones. "And there'll be fireworks andthe air will be full of light and noise, under cover of which almostanything might be done. I don't like it! Hello! What's here?"

He turned to the glass front of a prosperous-looking cigar store on thesouth side of the avenue and pointed to a shattered hole in the window. Behind it a bullet swung on a thread from the ceiling, and this agentof disaster the proprietor had ingeniously turned to account inadvertising, by the following placard:

 AIM LOWER If you expect to shoot holes in our prices. WE CHALLENGE OUR COMPETITION

"Not bad, " approved Average Jones. "I feel a great yearning to smoke--"

They entered the store and were served by the proprietor. As he wasmaking change, Average Jones asked:

"When was the bombardment?"

"Night before last, some time, " replied the man. 

"Done by a deflected bullet, wasn't it?"

"Haven't any idea how it was done or why. I got here in the morning andthere she was. What makes you think it was a deflected bullet?"

"Because it was whirling end-over. Normally, a bullet bores a prettyclean hole in plate glass. "

"That's so, too, " agreed the man with some interest. 

Average Jones handed a cigar to Waldemar and lighted one himself. Puffing at it as he walked to the door, he gazed casually around andfinally centered his attention on a telegraph pole standing on the edgeof the sidewalk. He even walked out and around the pole. Returning, heremarked to the tobacconist:

"Very good cigars, these. Ever advertise 'em?"

"Sure. " The man displayed a tin square vaunting the virtues of his"Camarados. "

"Outside the shop, I meant. Why wouldn't one of those signs look good onthat telegraph pole?"

"It would look good to me, " said the vendor, "but it wouldn't look goodto the telegraph people. They'd have it down. "

"Oh, I don't know. Give me one, lend me a ladder, and I'll make theexperiment. "

The tobacconist stared. "All right, " he said. "Go as far as you like. "And he got the required articles for his customer. 

With silent curiosity Waldemar watched Average Jones place the ladderagainst the outside of the pole, mount, nail up the sign, drop aplumb-line, improvised from a key and a length of string, to the ground, set a careful knot in the string and return to earth. 

"What did you find?" asked the editor. 

"Four holes that you could cover with a silver dollar. Some gunnery, that!"

"Then how did the other shot happen to go so far wrong. "

"Do you see that steel work over there?"

Average Jones pointed across to the north side of the street, justopposite, where a number of buildings had been torn down to permitof the erection of a new one. The frame had risen three stories, andthrough the open spaces in the gaunt skeleton the rear of the housesfacing on the street next northward could be seen. Waldemar indicatedthat he did see the edifice pointed out by Average Jones. 

"The bullet came from back of that--perhaps from the next street. Theysighted by the telegraph pole. Suppose, now, a man riding in a highcoach passes along this avenue between the pole and the gun operator, over yonder to the northward. Every one of the bullets which hit thepole would have gone right through his body. Probably a fixed gun. Asfor the wide shot, we'll see. "

As he spoke, the Ad-Visor was leading the way across the street. Withupturned face he carefully studied the steel joists from end to end. Presently he pointed. Following the line of his finger, Waldemar saw araw scar on the under side of one of the joists. 

"There it is, " said Average Jones. "The sights were a trifle off at thefirst shot, and the bullet ticked the steel and deflected. "

"So far, so good, " approved Waldemar. 

"I can approximate the height of the steel beam from the ground, closeenough for a trial formula, " continued Average Jones. "Now, Waldemar, Icall your attention to that restaurant on the opposite corner. "

Waldemar conned the designated building with attention. "Well, " he saidfinally, "what of it? I don't see anything wrong with it. "

"Precisely my point, " returned the Ad-Visor with a grin. "Neither do I. Therefore, suppose you go there and order luncheon for two, while Iwalk down to the next block and back again. I'll be with you in fourminutes. "

He was somewhat better than his word. Dropping into the chair oppositehis friend, he figured swiftly and briefly on the back of an envelope, which he returned to his pocket. 

"I suppose you've done a vast amount of investigating since you leftme, " remarked the editor sardonically. "Meanwhile, the plot to murderthe governor goes merrily on. "

"I've done a fair amount of pacing over distance, " retorted AverageJones imperturbably. "As for the governor, they can't kill him tillhe comes, can they? Besides, there's plenty of time for them to changetheir minds. As a result of my little constitutional just now, anda simple exercise in mathematics, you and I will call at a house onSpencer Street, the next street north, after luncheon. "

"What house?"

"Ah! that I don't know, as yet. We'll see when we get there. "

Comfortably fed, the two strolled up to Spencer Street and turned intoit, Average Jones eying the upper windows of the houses. He stoppedin front of an old-fashioned frame structure, which was built on adifferent plan of floor level from its smaller neighbors of brick. Upthe low steps went Jones, followed by the editor. An aged lady, of thespecies commonly, conjectured as "maiden, " opened the door. 

"Madam, " said Average Jones, "could we rent your third floor rear forthis evening?"

"No, sir, " said she. "It's rented. "

"Perhaps I could buy the renters off, " suggested Jones. "Could I seethem?"

"Both out, " she answered shortly. "And I don't believe you could getthe room from them, for they're all fixed up to take photographs of theparade. "

"Indee-ee-eed, " drawled Average Jones, in accents so prolonged, even forhim, that Waldemar's interest flamed within him. "I--er--ra--ra-aatherhoped--er--when do you expect them back?"

"About four o'clock. "

"Thank you. Please tell them that--er--Mr. Nick Karboe called. "

"For heaven's sake, Average, " rumbled Waldemar, as they regained thepavement, "why did you use the dead man's name? It gave me a shiver. "

"It'll give them a worse one, " replied the Ad-Visor grimly. "I want toprepare their nerves for a subsequent shock. If you'll meet me here thisevening at seven, I think I can promise you a queer spectacle. "

"And meantime?"

"On that point I want your advice. Shall we make a sure catch of twohired assassins who don't amount to much, or take a chance at the biggergame?"

"Meaning Morrison?"

"Meaning Morrison. Incidentally, if we get him we'll be able to kill thePersonal Liberty bill so dead it will never raise its head again. "

"Then I'm for that course, " decided the editor, after a littleconsideration, "though I can't yet make myself believe that CarrollMorrison is party to a deliberate murder plot. "

"How the normal mind does shrink from connecting crime with good clothesand a social position!" remarked the Ad-Visor. "Just give me a moment'stime. "

The moment he spent jotting down words on a bit of paper, which, aftersome emendation, he put away. 

"That'll do for a heading, " he remarked. "Now, Waldemar, I want you toget the governor on the 'phone and tell him, if he'll follow directions, we'll put the personal liberty bill where the wicked cease fromtroubling. Morrison is to be in the reviewing stand, isn't he?"

"Yes; there's a special place reserved for him, next the press seats. "

"Good! By the way, you'd better send for two press seats for you andmyself. Now, what I want: the governor to do is this: get a copy of theHarrisonia Evening Bell, fold it to an advertisement headed 'Offer toPhotographers, ' and as he passes Carroll Morrison on the stand, holdit up and say to him just this: 'Better luck next time. ' For anythingfurther, I'll see you in the reviewing stand. Do you think he'll do it?"

"It sounds as foolish as a college initiation stunt. Still, you heardwhat Governor Arthur said about his confidence in you. But what is thisadvertisement?"

"As yet, it isn't. But it will be, as soon as I can get to the office ofthe Bell. You'll meet me on this corner at seven o'clock, then?"

"Yes. Meantime, to be safe, I'll look after the reviewing stand ticketsmyself. "

At the hour named, the editor arrived. Average Jones was already there, accompanied by a messenger boy. The boy wore the cheerful grin of onewho has met with an unexpected favor of fortune. 

"They've returned, both of 'em, " said Average Jones as Waldemarapproached. "What about the governor?"

"It took a mighty lot of persuasion, but he'll do it, " replied theeditor. 

"Skip, son, " said the Ad-Visor, handing the messenger boy a foldednewspaper. "The two gentlemen on the third floor rear. And be sure yousay that it's a personal, marked copy. "

The boy crossed the street and entered the house. In two minutes heemerged, nodded to Average Jones and walked away. Five minutes passed. Then the front door opened cautiously and a tall, evil-looking man slunkinto the vestibule. A second man followed him. They glanced eagerly fromleft to right. Average Jones stepped out to the curb-stone. 

"Here's the message from Karboe, " he called. 

"My God!" gasped the tall man. 

For an instant he made as if to turn back. Then, clearing the steps atone jump, he stumbled, sprawled, was up again instantly and speedingup the street, away from Average Jones, turned the corner neck and neckwith his companion who, running powerfully, had overtaken him. 

The door of the house stood ajar. Before Waldemar had recovered fromhis surprise, Average Jones was inside the house. Hesitation beset theeditor. Should he follow or wait? He paused, one foot on the step. Aloud crash within resolved his doubts. Up he started, when the voice ofAverage Jones in colloquy with the woman who had received them before, checked him. The colloquy seemed excited but peaceful. Presently AverageJones came down the steps. 

"They left the ad, " said he. "Have you seen it?"

"No; I hadn't time to get a paper, " replied Waldemar, taking the copyextended to him and reading in large display:

 OFFER TO PHOTOGRAPHERS

 $1, 000 Reward for Special, Flash-light Photo of Governor Arthur in To-night's Pageant. Must be Taken According to Plans and Specifications Designated by the Late Nick Karboe. Apply to A. JONES, Ad-Visor. Astor Court Temple, New York City. 

"No wonder they ran, " said Waldemar with a grin, as he digested thisdocument. 

"And so must we if we're to get through the crowd and reach thereviewing stand, " warned Average Jones, glancing at his watch. 

Their seats, which they attained with some difficulty, were within a fewfeet of the governor's box. Within reach of them sat Carroll Morrison, his long, pale, black-bearded face set in that immobility to whichhe had schooled it. But the cold eyes roved restlessly and the littlemuscles at the corners of the lips twitched. 

"Tell me that he isn't in on the game!" whispered Average Jones, andWaldemar nodded. 

The sound of music from down the street turned all faces in thatdirection. A roar of cheering swept toward them and was taken up in thestands. The governor, in his high coach, came in sight. And, at thatmoment, terror struck into the soul of Waldemar. 

"Suppose they came back!" he whispered to Average Jones. "We've left thehouse unguarded. "

"I've fixed that, " replied the Ad-Visor in the same tone. "WatchMorrison!"

Governor Arthur approached the civic statue. An official, running out tothe coach, handed him a silken cord, which he secured with a turnaround the wrist. The coach rolled on. The cord tautened; the swathingssundered and fell from the gleaming splendor of marble, and a blindingflash, followed by another, and a third, blotted out the scene inunbearable radiance. 

Involuntarily Morrison, like thousands of others, had screened hissight with his hands after the second flash. Now, as the kindlier lightreturned, he half rose, rubbing his eyes furiously. A half-groan escapedhim. He sank back, staring in amaze. For Governor Arthur was riding on, calm and smiling amid the shouts. 

Morrison shrank. Could it be that the governor's eyes were fixed on his?He strove to shake off the delusion. He felt, rather than saw, theguest of honor descend from the coach; felt rather than saw him makingstraight toward himself; and he winced and quivered at the sound of hisown name. 

"Mr. Morrison, " the governor was saying, at his elbow, "Mr. Morrison, here is a paper that may interest you. Better luck next time. "

Morrison strove to reply. His voice clucked in his throat, and the handwith which he took the folded newspaper was as the hand of a paralytic. 

"He's broken, " whispered Average Jones. 

He went straight to Governor Arthur, speaking in his ear. The governornodded. Average Jones returned to his seat to watch Carroll Morrisonwho, sat, with hell-fires of fear scorching him, until the last band hadblared its way into silence. 

Again the governor was speaking to him. 

"'Mr. Morrison, I want you to visit a house near here. Mr. Jones and Mr. Waldemar will come along; you know them, perhaps. Please don't protest. I positively will not take a refusal. We have a motor-car waiting. "

Furious, but not daring to refuse, Morrison found himself whirledswiftly away, and after a few turns to shake off the crowd, into SpencerStreet. With his captors, he mounted to the third floor of an old framehouse. The rear room door had been broken in. Inside stood a strangeinstrument, resembling a large camera, which had once stood upright ona steel tripod riveted to the floor. The legs of the tripod were twistedand bent. A half-demolished chair near by suggested the agency ofdestruction. 

"Just to render it harmless, " explained Average Jones. "It formerlypointed through that window, so that a bullet from the barrel wouldstrike that pole way yonder in Harrison Street, after first passingthrough any intervening body. Yours, for instance, Governor. "

"Do I understand that this is a gun, Mr. Jones, " asked that official. 

"Of a sort, " replied the Ad-Visor, opening up the camera-box andshowing a large barrel superimposed on a smaller one. "This is asighting-glass, " he explained, tapping the larger barrel. "And this, "tapping the smaller, "carries a small but efficient bullet. This curioussheath"--he pointed to a cylindrical jacket around part of the riflebarrel--"is a Coulomb silencer, which reduces a small-arm report almostto a whisper. Here is an electric button which was connected with yonderbattery before I operated on it with the chair, and distributed itsspark, part to the gun, part to the flash-light powder on this littleshelf. Do you see the plan now? The instant that the governor, ridingthrough the street yonder, is sighted through this glass, the operatorpresses the button, and flash-light and bullet go off instantaneously. "

"But why the flash-light?" asked the governor. 

"Merely a blind to fool the landlady and avert any possible suspicion. They had told her that they had a new invention to take flash-lightsat a distance. Amidst the other flashes, this one wouldn't be noticedparticularly. They had covered their trail well. "

"Well, indeed, " said the governor. "May I congratulate you, Mr. Morrison, on this interesting achievement in ballistics?"

"As there is no way of properly resenting an insult from a man in yourposition, " said Morrison venomously, "I will reserve my answer to thatoutrageous suggestion. "

"Meantime, " put in Average Jones, "let me direct your attention to asimple mathematical formula. " He drew from his pocket an envelope onwhich were drawn some angles, subjoined by a formula. Morrison waved itaside. 

"Not interested in mathematics?" asked Average Jones solicitously. "Verywell, I'll elucidate informally. Given a bullet hole in a telegraphpole at a certain distance, a bullet scar on an iron girder at acertain lesser distance, and the length of a block from here to HarrisonAvenue--which I paced off while you were skillfully ordering luncheon, Waldemar--and an easy triangulation brings us direct to this room andto two fugitive gentlemen with whom I mention the hypothesis with alldeference, Mr. Morrison, you are probably acquainted. "

"And who may they have been?" retorted Morrison contemptuously. 

"I don't know, " said Average Jones. 

"Then, sir, " retorted the racing king, "your hypothesis is as impudentas your company is intolerable. Have you anything further to say to me?"

"Yes. It would greatly please Mr. Waldemar to publish in to-morrow'spaper an authorized statement from you to the effect that the PersonalLiberty bill will be withdrawn permanently. "

"Mr. Waldemar may go to the devil. I have endured all the hectoringI propose to. Men in my position are targets for muckrakers andblackmailers--"

"Wait a moment, " Waldemar's heavy voice broke in. "You speak of menin your position. Do you understand just what position you are in atpresent?"

Morrison rose. "Governor Arthur, " he said with with stony dignity, "Ibid you good evening. "

Waldemar set his bulky back against the door. The lips drew back fromMorrison's strong teeth with the snarl of an animal in the fury andterror of approaching peril. 

"Do you know Nick Karboe?"

Morrison whirled about to face Average Jones. But he did not answer thequestion. He only stared. 

"Carroll Morrison, " continued Average Jones in his quiet drawl, "thehalf-hour before he--er--committed suicide--er--Nick Karboe spent in theoffice of the--er--Universal with Mr. Waldemar and--er--myself. Catchhim, Waldemar!"

For Morrison had wilted. They propped him against the wall and he, theman who had insolently defied the laws of a great commonwealth, whohad bribed legislatures and bossed judges and browbeaten the public, slobbered, denied and begged. For two disgustful minutes they extractedfrom him his solemn promise that henceforth he would keep his hands offthe laws. Then they turned him out. 

"Suppose you enlighten me with the story, gentlemen, " suggested thegovernor. 

Average Jones told it, simply and modestly. At the conclusion, GovernorArthur looked from the wrecked camera-gun to the mathematical formulawhich had fallen to the floor. 

"Mr. Jones, " he said, "you've done me the service of saving my life;you've done the public the service of killing a vicious bill. I wish Icould thank you more publicly than this. "

"Thank you, Governor, " said Average' Jones modestly. "But I owed thepublic something, you know, on account of, my uncle, the late Mayor VanReypen. "

Governor Arthur nodded. "The debt is paid, " he said. "That knowledgemust be your reward; that and the consciousness of having worked out aremarkable and original problem. "

"Original?" said Average Jones, eying the diagram on the envelope'sback, with his quaint smile. "Why, Governor, you're giving me too muchcredit. It was worked out by one of the greatest detectives of all time, some two thousand years ago. His name was Euclid. "

CHAPTER XI. THE MILLION-DOLLAR DOG

To this day, Average Jones maintains that he felt a distinct thrill atfirst sight of the advertisement. Yet Fate might well have chosen amore appropriate ambush in any one of a hundred of the strange clippingswhich were grist to the Ad-Visor's mill. Out of a bulky pile of theday's paragraphs, however, it was this one that leaped, significant, tohis eye. 

 WANTED--Ten thousand loathly black beetles, by A leaseholder who contracted to leave a house in the same condition as he found it. Ackroyd, 100 W. Sixteenth St. New York

"Black beetles, eh?" observed Average Jones. "This Ackroyd person seemsto be a merry little jester. Well, I'm feeling rather jocular, myself, this morning. How does one collect black beetles, I wonder? When indoubt, inquire of the resourceful Simpson. "

He pressed a button and his confidential clerk entered. 

"Good morning, Simpson, " said Average Jones. 

"Are you acquainted with that shy but pervasive animal, the domesticblack beetle?"

"Yes, sir; I board, " said Simpson simply. 

"I suppose there aren't ten thousand black beetles in yourboarding-house, though?" inquired Average Jones. 

Simpson took it under advisement. "Hardly, " he decided. 

"I've got to have 'em to fill an order. At least, I've got to have aninstallment of 'em, and to-morrow. "

Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk was imperviousto surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise, his employmentas practical aide to Average Jones would probably have driven him intoa madhouse. He now ran his long, thin, clerkly hands through his long, thin, clerkly hair. 

"Ramson, down on Fulton Street, will have them, if any one has, " he saidpresently. "He does business under the title of the Insect Nemesis, youknow. I'll go there at once. "

Returning to his routine work, Average Jones found himself unable todislodge the advertisement from his mind. So presently he gave way totemptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked him tocome to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience. Scenting moreadventure, Bertram found it convenient to come promptly. Average Joneshanded him the clipping. Bertram read it with ascending eyebrows. 

"Hoots!" he said. "The man's mad. "

"I didn't ask you here to diagnose the advertiser's trouble. That'splain enough--though you've made a bad guess. What I want of you is totap your flow of information about old New York. What's at One HundredWest Sixteenth Street?"

"One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it's the oldFeltner mansion. You must know it. It has a walled garden at the side;the only one left in the city, south of Central Park. "

"Any one named Ackroyd there?"

"That must be Hawley Ackroyd. I remember, now, hearing that he hadrented it. Judge Ackroyd, you know, better known as 'Oily' Ackroyd. He'sa smooth old rascal. "

"Indeed? What particular sort?"

"Oh, most sorts, in private. Professionally, he's a legislative crook;head lobbyist of the Consolidated. "

"Ever hear of his collecting insects?"

"Never heard of his collecting anything but graft. In fact, he'd havebeen in jail years ago, but for his family connections. He married aVan Haltern. You remember the famous Van Haltern will case, surely; themillion-dollar dog. The papers fairly, reeked of it a year ago. Sylvia Graham had to take the dog and leave the country to escape thenotoriety. She's back now, I believe. "

"I've heard of Miss Graham, " remarked Average Jones, "through friends ofmine whom she visits. "

"Well, if you've only heard of her and not seen her, " returned Bertram, with something as nearly resembling enthusiasm as his habitual languorpermitted, "you've got something to look forward to. Sylvia Graham is adistinct asset to the Scheme of Creation. "

"An asset with assets of her own, I believe, " said Average Jones. "Themillion dollars left by her grandmother, old Mrs. Van Haltern, goes toher eventually; doesn't it?"

"Provided she carries out the terms of the will, keeps the dog in properluxury and buries him in the grave on the family estate at Schuylkilldesignated by the testator. If these terms are not rigidly carried out, the fortune is to be divided, most of it going to Mrs. Hawley Ackroyd, which would mean the judge himself. I should say that the dog was asgood as sausage meat if 'Oily' ever gets hold of him. "

"H'm. What about Mrs. Ackroyd?"

"Poor, sickly, frightened lady! She's very fond of Sylvia Graham, who isher niece. But she's completely dominated by her husband. "

"Information is your long suit, Bert. Now, if you only had intelligenceto correspond--" Average Jones broke off and grinned mildly, first athis friend, then at the advertisement. 

Bertram caught up the paper and studied it. "Well, what does it mean?"he demanded. 

"It means that Ackroyd, being about to give up his rented house, intendsto saddle it with a bad name. Probably he's had a row with the agent orowner, and is getting even by making the place difficult to rent again. Nobody wants to take a house with the reputation of an entomologicalresort. "

"It would be just like Oily Ackroyd, " remarked Bertram. "He's avindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poor devilof a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed to keep it outof the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine. "

"That might be worth looking up, too, " ruminated Average Jonesthoughtfully. 

He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. "All right, come, in, Simpson, " he said. 

The confidential clerk appeared. "Ramson says that regular black beetlesare out of season, sir, " he reported. "But he can send to the countryand dig up plenty of red-and-black ones. "

"That will do, " returned the Ad-Visor. "Tell him to have two or threehundred here to-morrow morning. "

Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. "Meaning that you're going tofollow up this freak affair?" he inquired. 

"Just that. I can't explain why, but--well, Bert, I've a hunch. Atthe worst, Ackroyd's face when he sees the beetles should be worth themoney. "

"When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you, lookout for Ackroyd. He's as big as he is ugly; a tough customer. "

"All right. I'll just put on some old clothes, to dress the part of abeetle-purveyor correctly, and also in case I get 'em torn in my meetingwith judge 'Oily. ' I'll see you later--and report, if I survive hiswrath. "

Thus it was that, on the morning after this dialogue, a clean-builtyoung fellow walked along West Sixteenth Street, appreciatively sniffingthe sunny crispness of the May air. He was rather shabby looking, yethis demeanor was by no means shabby. It was confident and easy. On theevidence of the bandbox which he carried, his mission should havebeen menial; but he bore himself wholly unlike one subdued to pettyemployments. His steady, gray eyes showed a glint of anticipation ashe turned in at the gate of the high, broad, brown house standing back, aloof and indignant, from the roaring encroachments of trade. He set hisburden down and, pulled the bell. 

The door opened promptly to the deep, far-away clangor. A flashingimpression of girlish freshness, vigor, and grace was disclosed to thecaller against a background of interior gloom. He stared a little morepatently than was polite. Whatever his expectation of amusement, this, evidently, was not the manifestation looked for. The girl glanced not athim, but at the box, and spoke a trifle impatiently. 

"If it's my hat, it's very late. You should have gone to the basement. "

"It isn't, miss, " said the young man, in a form of address, thesemi-servility of which seemed distinctly out of tone with the quietlyclear and assured voice. "It's the insects. "

"The what?"'

"The bugs, miss. "'

He extracted from his pocket a slip of paper, looked from it to thenumbered door, as one verifying an address, and handed it to her. 

"From yesterday's copy of the Banner, miss. You're not going back onthat, surely, " he said somewhat reproachfully. 

She read, and as she read her eyes widened to lakes of limpid brown. Then they crinkled at the corners, and her laugh rose from the mid-tonecontralto, to a high, bird-like trill of joyousness. The infection of ittugged at the young man's throat, but he successfully preserved his maskof flat and respectful dullness. 

"It must have been Uncle, " she gasped finally. "He said he'd be quitswith the real estate agent before he left. How perfectly absurd! And arethose the creatures in that box?"

"The first couple of hundred of 'em, miss. "

"Two hundred!" Again the access of laughter swelled the rounded bosom asthe breeze fills a sail. "Where did you get them?"

"Woodpile, ash-heap, garbage-pail, " said the young man stolidly. "Anyparticular kind preferred, Miss Ackroyd?"

The girl looked at him with suspicion, but his face was blanklyinnocent. 

"I'm not Miss Ackroyd, " she began with emphasis, when a querulous voicefrom an inner room called out: "Whom are you talking to, Sylvia?"

"A young man with a boxful of beetles, " returned the girl, adding inbrisk French: "Il est tres amusant ce farceur. Je ne le comprends pas dutout. Cest une blague, peut-etre. Si on l'invitait dans la maison pourun moment?"

Through one of the air-holes, considerately punched in the cardboardcover of the box, a sturdy crawler had succeeded in pushing himself. He was, in the main, of a shiny and well-groomed black, but two largepatches of crimson gave him the festive appearance of being garbed ina brilliant sash. As he stood rubbing his fore-legs together inself-congratulation over his exploit, his bearer addressed him in Frenchquite as ready as the girl's:

"Permettez-moi, Monsieur le Colioptere, de vous presenter mes excusespour cette demoiselle qui s'exprime en langue etrangere chez elle. "

"Don't apologize to the beetle on my account, " retorted the girl withspirit. "You're here on your own terms, you know, both of you. "

Average Jones mutely held up the box in one hand and the advertisementin the other. The adventurer-bug flourished a farewell to the girl withhis antennae, and retired within to advise his fellows of the charms offreedom. 

"Very well, " said the girl, in demure tones, though lambent mirth stillflickered, golden, in the depths of the brown eyes. "If you persist, I can only suggest that you come back when Judge Ackroyd is here. You won't find him particularly amenable to humor, particularly whenperpetrated by a practical joker in masquerade. "

"Discovered, " murmured Average Jones. "I shouldn't have vaunted my poorFrench. But must I really take my little friends all the way back? Yousuggested to the mystic voice within that I might be invited inside. "

"You seem a decidedly unconventional person, " began the other withdawning disfavor. 

"Conventionality, like charity, begins at home, " he replied quickly. "And one would hardly call this advertisement a pattern of formaletiquette. "

"True enough, " she admitted, dimpling, and Average Jones wascongratulating himself on his diplomacy, when the querulous voice brokein again, this time too low for his ears. 

"I don't ask you the real reason for your extraordinary call, " pursuedthe girl with a glint of mischief in her eyes, after she had respondedin an aside, "but auntie thinks you've come to steal my dog. She thinksthat of every one lately. "

"Auntie? Your dog? Then you're Sylvia Graham. I might have known it. "

"I don't know how you might have known it. But I am Sylvia Graham--ifyou insist on introducing me to yourself. "

"Miss Graham, " said the visitor promptly and gravely, "let me presentA. V. R. E. Jones: a friend--"

"Not the famous Average Jones!" cried the girl. "That is why your faceseemed so familiar. I've seen your picture at Edna Hale's. You got her'blue fires' back for her. But really, that hardly explains your beinghere, in this way, you know. "

"Frankly, Miss Graham, it was just as a lark that I answered theadvertisement. But now that I'm here and find you here, it looks--er--asif it might--er--be more serious. "

A tinge of pink came into the girl's cheeks, but she answered lightlyenough:

"Indeed, it may, for you, if uncle finds you here with those beetles. "

"Never mind me or the beetles. I'd like to know about the dog that youraunt is worrying over. Is he here with you?"

The soft curve of Miss Graham's lips straightened a little. "I reallythink, " she said with decision, "that you had better explain furtherbefore questioning. "

"Nothing simpler. Once upon a time there lived a crack-brained young DonQuixote who wandered through an age of buried romance piously searchingfor trouble. And, twice upon a time, there dwelt in an enchantedstone castle in West Sixteenth Street an enchanting young damsel indistress--"

"I'm not a damsel in distress, " interrupted Miss Graham, passing overthe adjective. 

The young man leaned to her. The half smile had passed from his lips, and his eyes were very grave. 

"Not--er--if your dog were to--er--disappear?" he drawled quietly. 

The swift unexpectedness of the counter broke down the girl's guard. 

"You mean Uncle Hawley, " she said. 

"And your suspicions jump with mine. "

"They don't!" she denied hotly. "You're very unjust and impertinent. "

"I don't mean to be impertinent, " he said evenly. "And I have nomonopoly of injustice. "

"What do you know about Uncle Hawley?"

"Your aunt--"'

"I won't hear a word against my aunt. "

"Not from me, be assured. Your aunt, so you have just told me, believesthat your dog is in danger of being stolen. Why? Because she knows thatthe person most interested has been scheming against the animal, and yetshe is afraid to warn you openly. Doesn't that indicate who it is?"

"Mr. Jones, I've no right even to let you talk like this to me. Have youanything definite against Judge Ackroyd?"

"In this case, only suspicion. "

Her head went up. "Then I think there is nothing more to be said. "

The young man flushed, but his voice was steady as he returned:

"I disagree with you. And I beg you to cut short your visit here, andreturn to your home at once. "

In spite of herself the girl was shaken by his persistence. "I can't dothat, " she said uneasily. And added, with a flash of anger, "I think youhad better leave this house. "

"If I leave this house now I may never have any chance to see youagain. "

The girl regarded him with level, non-committal eyes. 

"And I have every intention of seeing you again--and--again--and again. Give me a chance; a moment. "

Average Jones' mind was of the emergency type. It summoned to its aid, without effort of cerebration on the part of its owner, whatever wasmost needed at the moment. Now it came to his rescue with the memory ofjudge Ackroyd's encounter with the drug clerk, as mentioned by Bertram. There was a strangely hopeful suggestion of some link between adrug-store quarrel and the arrival of a million-dollar dog, "betterdead" in the hopes of his host. 

"Miss Graham; I've gone rather far, I'll admit, " said Jones; "but, ifyou'll give me the benefit of the doubt, I think I can show you somebasis to work on. If I can produce something tangible, may I comeback here this afternoon? I'll promise not to come unless I have goodreason. "

"Very well, " conceded Miss Graham reluctantly, "it's a most unusualthing. But I'll agree to that. "

"Au revoir, then, " he said, and was gone. 

Somewhat to her surprise and uneasiness, Sylvia Graham experienceda distinct satisfaction when, late that afternoon, she beheld herunconventional acquaintance mounting the steps with a buoyant andassured step. Upon being admitted, he went promptly to the point. 

"I've got it. "

"Your justification for coming back?" she asked. 

"Exactly. Have you heard anything of some trouble in which judge Ackroydwas involved last week?"

"Uncle has a very violent temper, " admitted the girl evasively. "But Idon't see what--"

"Pardon me. You will see. That row was with a drug clerk. "

"In an obscure drug store several blocks from here. "

"Yes. "

"The drug clerk insisted--as the law requires--on judge Ackroydregistering for a certain purchase. "

"Perhaps he was impertinent about it. "

"Possibly. The point is that the prospective purchase was cyanide ofpotassium, a deadly and instantaneous poison. "

"Are you sure?" asked the girl, in a low voice. 

"I've just come from the store. How long have you been here at youruncle's?"

"A week. "

"Then just about the time of your coming with the dog, your uncleundertook to obtain a swift and sure poison. Have I gone far enough?"

"I--I don't know. "

"Well, am I still ordered out of the house?"

"N-n-no. "

"Thank you for your enthusiastic hospitality, " said Average Jonesso dryly that a smile relaxed the girl's troubled face. "With thatencouragement we'll go on. What is your uncle's attitude toward thedog?"

"Almost what you might call ingratiating. But Peter Paul--that's mydog's name, you know--doesn't take to uncle. He's a crotchety olddoggie. "

"He's a wise old doggie, " amended the other, with emphasis. "Has youruncle taken him out, at all?"

"Once he tried to. I met them at the corner. All four of Peter Paul'spoor old fat legs were braced, and he was hauling back as hard as hecould against the leash. "

"And the occurrence didn't strike you as peculiar?"

"Well, not then. "

"When does your uncle give up this house?"

"At the end of the week. Uncle and aunt leave for Europe. "

"Then let me suggest again that you and Peter Paul go at once. "

Miss Graham pondered. "That would mean explanations and a quarrel, andmore strain for auntie, who is nervous enough, anyway. No, I can't dothat. "

"Do you realize that every day Peter Paul remains here is an addedopportunity for judge Ackroyd to make a million dollars, or a big shareof it, by some very simple stratagem?"

"I haven't admitted yet that I believe my uncle to be a--a murderer, "Miss Graham quietly reminded him. 

"A strong word, " said Average Jones smiling. "The law would hardlysupport your view. Now, Miss Graham, would it grieve you very much ifPeter Paul were to die?"

"I won't have him put to death, " said she quickly. "That would be, cheating my grandmother's intentions. "

"I supposed you wouldn't. Yet it would be the simplest way. Once dead, and buried in accordance with the terms of the will, the dog would beout of his troubles, and you would be out of yours. "

"It would really be a relief. Peter Paul suffers so from asthma, poorold beastie. The vet says he can live only a month or two longer, anyway. But I've got to do as Grandmother wished, and keep Peter Paulalive as long as possible. "

"Admitted. " Average Jones fell into a baffled silence, studying thepattern of the rug with restless eyes. When he looked up into MissGraham's face again it was with a changed expression. 

"Miss Graham, " he said slowly, "won't you try to forget, for the moment, the circumstances of our meeting, and think of me only as a friend ofyour friends who is very honestly eager to be a friend to you, when youmost need one?"

Now, Average Jones's birth-fairy had endowed him with one pricelessgift: the power of inspiring an instinctive confidence in himself. Sylvia Graham felt, suddenly, that a hand, sure and firm, had beenoutstretched to guide her on a dark path. In one of those rare flashesof companionship which come only when clean and honorable spiritsrecognize one another, all consciousness of sex was lost between them. The girl's gaze met the man's level, and was held in a long, silentregard. 

"Yes, " she said simply; and the heart of Average Jones rose and swore ahigh loyalty. 

"Listen, then. I think I see a clear way. Judge Ackroyd will kill thedog if he can, and so effectually conceal the body that no funeral canbe held over it, thereby rendering your grandmother's bequest to youvoid. He has only a few days to do it in, but I don't think that allyour watchfulness can restrain him. Now, on the other hand, if the dogshould die a natural death and be buried, he can still contest thewill. But if he should kill Peter Paul and hide the body where we coulddiscover it, the game would be up for him, as he then wouldn't even dareto come into court with a contest. Do you follow me?"

"Yes. But you wouldn't ask me to be a party to any such thing. "

"You're a party, involuntarily, by remaining here. But do your best tosave Peter Paul, if you will. And please call me up immediately at theCosmic Club, if anything in my line turns up. "

"What is your line?" asked Miss Graham, the smile returning to herlips. "Creepy, crawly bugs? Or imperiled dogs? Or rescuing prospectivelydistressed damsels?"

"Technically it's advertising, " replied Average Jones, who had beenformulating a shrewd little plan of his own. "Let me recommend to youthe advertising columns of the daily press. They're often amusing. Moreover your uncle might break out in print again. Who knows?"

"Who, indeed? I'll read religiously. "

"And, by the way, my beetles. I forgot and left them here. Oh, there'sthe box. I may have a very specific use for them later. Au revoir--andmay it be soon!"

The two days succeeding seemed to Average Jones, haunted as he was byan importunate craving to look again into Miss Graham's limpid andchangeful eyes, a dull and sodden period of probation. The messengerboy who finally brought her expected note, looked to him like a Greekgodling. The note enclosed this clipping:

 LOST-Pug dog answering to the name of Peter Paul. Very old and asthmatic. Last seen on West 16th Street. Liberal reward for information to Anxious. Care of Banner office. 

Dear Mr. Jones (she had written):

Are you a prophet? (Average Jones chuckled, at this point. ) The enclosedseems to be distinctly in our line. Could you come some time thisafternoon? I'm puzzled and a little anxious. 

Sincerely yours, Sylvia Graham. 

Average Jones could, and did. He found Miss Graham's piquant face underthe stress of excitement, distinctly more alluring than before. 

"Isn't it strange?" she said, holding out a hand in welcome. "Why shouldany one advertise for my Peter Paul? He isn't lost. "

"I am glad to hear that, " said the caller gravely. 

"I've kept my promise, you see, " pursued the girl. "Can you do as well, and live up to your profession of aid?"

"Try me. "

"Very well, do you know what that advertisement means?"

"Perfectly. "

"Then you're a very extraordinary person. "

"Not in the least. I wrote it. "

"Wrote it! You? Well--really! Why in the world did you write it?"

"Because of an unconquerable longing to see, " Average Jones paused, andhis quick glance caught the storm signal in her eyes, "your uncle, " heconcluded calmly. 

For one fleeting instant a dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. It departed. But departing, it swept the storm before it. 

"What do you want to see uncle about, if it isn't an impertinentquestion?"

"It is, rather, " returned the young man judicially. "Particularly, asI'm not sure, myself. I may want to quarrel with him. "

"You won't have the slightest difficulty in that, " the girl assured him. 

She rang the bell, dispatched a servant, and presently judge Ackroydstalked into the room. As Average Jones was being presented, he tookcomprehensive note and estimate of the broad-cheeked, thin-lipped face;the square shoulders and corded neck, and the lithe and formidablecarriage of the man. Judge "Oily" Ackroyd's greeting of the guest withinhis gates did not bear out the sobriquet of his public life. It was curtto the verge of harshness. 

"What is the market quotation on beetles, judge?" asked the young man, tapping the rug with his stick. 

"What are you talking about?" demanded the other, drawing down his heavybrows. 

"The black beetle; the humble but brisk haunter of household crevices, "explained Average Jones. "You advertised for ten thousand specimens. I've got a few thousand I'd like to dispose of, if the inducements aresufficient. "

"I'm in no mood for joking, young man, " retorted the other, rising. 

"You seldom are, I understand, " replied Average Jones blandly. "Well, ifyou won't talk about bugs, let's talk about dogs. "

"The topic does not interest me, sir, " retorted the other, and theglance of his eye was baleful, but uneasy. 

The tapping of the young man's cane ceased. He looked up into his host'sglowering face with a seraphic and innocent smile. 

"Not even if it--er--touched upon a device for guarding the streetcorners in case--er--Peter Paul went walking--er--once too often?"

Judge Ackroyd took one step forward. Average Jones was on his feetinstantly, and, even in her alarm, Sylvia Graham noticed how swiftlyand naturally his whole form "set. " But the big man turned away, andabruptly left the room. 

"Were you wise to anger him?" asked the girl, as the heavy tread diedaway on the stairs. 

"Sometimes open declaration of war is the soundest strategy. "

"War?" she repeated. "You make me feel like a traitor to my own family. "

"That's the unfortunate part of it, " he said; "but it can't be helped. "

"You spoke of having some one guard the corners of the block, " continuedthe girl, after a thoughtful silence. "Do you think I'd better arrangefor that?"

"No need. There'll be a hundred people on watch. "

"Have you called out the militia?" she asked, twinkling. 

"Better than that. I've employed the tools of my trade. "

He handed her a galley proof marked with many corrections. She ranthrough it with growing amazement. 

 HAVE YOU SEEN THE DOG?

 $100-One Hundred Dollars-$100 FOR THE BEST ANSWER IN 500 WORDS

 OPEN TO ALL HIGH SCHOOL BOYS

 Between now and next Saturday an old Pug Dog will come out of a big House on West 16th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues. It may be by Day. It may be at any hour of the Night. Now, you Boys, get to work. 

 REMEMBER: $100 IN CASH

 HERE ARE THE POINTS TO MIND-- 1. Description of the Dog. 2. Description of Person with him. 3. Description of House he Comes from. 4. Account of Where they Go. 5. Account of What they Do. 

 Manuscripts must be written plainly and mailed within twenty-four hours of the discovery of the dog to

 A. JONES: AD-VISOR ASTOR COURT TEMPLE, NEW YORK

"That will appear in every New York paper tomorrow morning, " explainedits deviser. 

"I see, " said the girl. "Any one who attempts to take Peter Paul awaywill be tracked by a band of boy detectives. A stroke of genius, Mr. Average. Jones. "

She curtsied low to him. But Average Jones was in no mood forplayfulness now. 

"That restricts the judge's endeavors to the house and garden, " said he, "since, of course he'll see the advertisement. "

"I'll see that he does, " said Miss Graham maliciously. 

"Good! I'll also ask you to watch the garden for any suspiciousexcavating. "

"Very well. But is that all?" Miss Graham's voice was wistful. 

"Isn't it enough?"

"You've been so good to me, " she said hesitantly. "I don't like to thinkof you as setting those boys to an impossible task. "

"Oh, bless you!" returned the Ad-Visor heartily; "that's all arrangedfor. One of my men will duly parade with a canine especially obtainedfor the occasion. I'm not going to swindle the youngsters. "

"It didn't seem like you, " returned Miss Graham warmly. "But you mustlet me pay for it, that and the advertising bill. "

"As an unauthorized expense--" he began. 

She laid a small, persuasive hand on his arm. 

"You must let me pay it. Won't you?"

Average Jones was conscious of a strange sensation, starting fromthe point where the firm, little hand lay. It spread in his veins andthickened his speech. 

"Of course, " he drawled, uncertainly, "if you--er--put it--er--thatway!"

The hand lifted. "Mr. Average Jones, " said the owner, "do you know youhaven't once disappointed me in speech or action during our short butrather eventful acquaintance?"

"I hope you'll be able to say the same ten years from now, " he returnedsignificantly. 

She flushed a little at the implication. "What am I to do next?" sheasked. 

"Do as you would ordinarily do; only don't take Peter Paul, intothe street, or you'll have a score of high-school boys trailing you. And--this is the most important--if the dog fails to answer your call atany time, and you can't readily find him by searching, telephone me, atonce, at my office. Good-by. "

"I think you are a very staunch friend to those who need you, " she said, gravely and sweetly, giving him her hand. 

She clung in his mind like a remembered fragrance, after he had goneback to Astor Court Temple to wait. And though he plunged into anintricate scheme of political advertising which was to launch a newlocal party, her eyes and her voice haunted him. Nor had he banishedthem, when, two days later, the telephone brought him her clear accents, a little tremulous now. 

"Peter Paul is gone. "

"Since when?"

"Since ten this morning. The house is in an uproar. "

"I'll be up in half an hour at the latest. "

"Do come quickly. I'm--I'm a little frightened. "

"Then you must have something to do, " said Average Jones decisively. "Have you been keeping an eye on the garden?"

"Yes. "

"Go through it again, looking carefully for signs of disarranged earth. I don't think you'll find it, but it's well to be sure. Let me in at thebasement door at half-past one. Judge Ackroyd mustn't see me. "

It was a strangely misshapen presentation of the normally spick-and-spanAverage Jones that gently rang the basement bell of the old house at thespecified hour. All his pockets bulged with lumpy angles. Immediately, upon being admitted by Miss Graham herself, he proceeded to disenburdenhimself of box after box, such as elastic bands come in, all exhibitinga homogeneous peculiarity, a hole at one end thinly covered with agelatinous substance. 

"Be very careful not to let that get broken, " he instructed themystified girl. "In the course of an hour or so it will melt awayitself. Did you see anything suspicious in the garden?"

"No!" replied the girl. She picked up one of the boxes. "How odd!" shecried. "Why, there's something in it that's alive!"

"Very much so. Your friends, the beetles, in fact. "

"What! Again? Aren't you carrying the joke rather far?"

"It's not a joke any more. It's deadly serious. I'm quite sure, " heconcluded in the manner of one who picks his words carefully, "that itmay turn out to be just the most serious matter in the world to me. "

"As bad as that?" she queried, but the color that flamed in her cheeksbelied the lightness of her tone. 

"Quite. However, that must wait. Where is your uncle?"

"Up-stairs in his study. "

"Do you think you could take me all through the house sometime thisafternoon without his seeing me?"

"No, I'm sure I couldn't. He's been wandering like an uneasy spiritsince Peter Paul disappeared. And he won't go out, because he ispacking. "

"So much the worse, either for him or me. Where are your rooms?"

"On the second floor. "

"Very well. Now, I want one of these little boxes left in every room inthe house, if possible, except on your floor, which is probably out ofthe reckoning. Do you think you could manage it soon?"

"I think so. I'll try. "

"Do most of the rooms open into one another?"

"Yes, all through the house. "

"Please see that they're all unlocked, and as far as possible, open. I'll be here at four o'clock, and will call for judge Ackroyd. Youmust be sure that he receives me. Tell him it is a matter of greatimportance. It is. "

"You're putting a fearful strain on my feminine curiosity, " said MissGraham, the provocative smile quirking at the comers of her mouth. 

"Doubtless, " returned the other dryly. "If you strictly followdirections, I'll undertake to satisfy it in time. Four o'clock sharp, I'll be here. Don't be frightened whatever happens. You keep ready, butout of the way, until I call you. Good-by. "

With even more than his usual nicety was Average Jones attired, when, atfour o'clock, he sent his card to judge Ackroyd. Small favor, however, did his appearance find, in the scowling eyes of the judge. 

"What do you want?" he growled. 

"I'll take a cigar, thank you very much, " said Average Jones innocently. 

"You'll take your leave, or state your business. "

"It has to do with your niece. "

"Then what do you take my time for, damn your impudence. "

"Don't swear. " Average Jones was deliberately provoking the older man toan outbreak. "Let's--er--sit down and--er--be chatty. "

The drawl, actually an evidence of excitement, had all the effect ofstudied insolence. Judge Ackroyd's big frame shook. 

"I'm going to k-k-kick you out into the street, you young p-p-p-pup, " hestuttered in his rage. 

His knotted fingers writhed out for a hold on the other's collar. Witha sinuous movement, the visitor swerved aside and struck the other man, flat-handed, across the face. There was an answering howl of demoniacfury. Then a strange thing happened. The assailant turned and fled, notto the ready egress of the front door, but down the dark stairway to thebasement. The judge thundered after, in maddened, unthinking pursuit. Average Jones ran fleetly and easily. And his running was not for thepurpose of flight alone, for as he sped through the basement rooms, hekept casting swift glances from side to side, and up and down the walls. The heavyweight pursuer could not get nearer than half a dozen paces. 

From the kitchen Average Jones burst into the hallway, doubled back upthe stairs and made a tour of the big drawing-rooms and living-rooms ofthe first floor. Here, too, his glance swept room after room, from floorto ceiling. The chase then led upward to the second floor, and by directascent to the third. Breathing heavily, judge Ackroyd lumbered after themore active man. In his dogged rage, he never thought to stop and blockthe hall-way; but trailed his quarry like a bloodhound through everyroom of the third floor, and upward to the fourth. Half-way up thisstairway, Average Jones checked his speed and surveyed the hall above. As he started again he stumbled and sprawled. A more competent observerthan the infuriated pursuer might have noticed that he fell cunningly. But judge Ackroyd gave a shout of savage triumph and increased hisspeed. He stretched his hand to grip the fugitive. It had almost touchedhim when he leaped, to his feet and resumed his flight. 

"I'll get you now!" panted the judge. 

The fourth floor of the old house was almost bare. In a hall-embrasurehung a full-length mirror. All along the borders of this, Average Jones'quick ranging vision had discerned small red-banded objects which movedand shifted. As the glass reflected his extended figure, it showed, almost at the same instant, the outstretched, bony hand of "Oily"Ackroyd. With a snarl, half rage, half satisfaction, the pursuer hurledhimself forward--and fell, with a plunge that rattled the house's oldbones. For, as he reached, Jones, trained on many a foot-ball field, hadwhirled and dived at his knees. Before the fallen man could gather hisshaken wits, he was pinned with the most disabling grip known in thescience of combat, a strangle-hold with the assailant's wrist clampedin below and behind the ear. Average Jones lifted his voice and the namethat came to his lips was the name that had lurked subconsciously, inhis heart, for days. 

"Sylvia!" he cried. "The fourth floor! Come!"

There was a stir and a cry from two floors below. Sylvia Graham hadbroken from the grasp of her terrified aunt, and now came up the sharpascent like a deer, her eyes blazing with resolve and courage. 

"The mirror, " said Average Jones. "Push it aside. Pull it down. Getbehind it somehow. Lie quiet, Ackroyd or I'll have to choke yourworthless head off. "

With an effort of nervous strength, the girl lifted aside the big glass. Behind it a hundred scarlet banded insects swarmed and scampered. 

"It's a panel. Open it. "

She tugged at the woodwork with quick, clever fingers. A sectionloosened and fell outward with a bang. The red-and-black beetles fled inall directions. And now, judge Ackroyd found his voice. 

"Help!" he roared. "Murder!"

The sinewy pressure of Average Jones' wrist smothered further attemptsat vocality to a gurgle. He looked up into Sylvia Graham's tense, face, and jerked his head toward the opening. 

"Unless my little detectives have deceived me, " he said, "you'll findthe body in there. "

She groped, and drew forth a large box. In it was packed the body ofPeter Paul. There was a cord about the fat neck. 

"Strangled, " whispered the girl. "Poor old doggie!" Then she whirledupon the prostrate man. "You murderer!" she said very low. 

"It's not murder to put a dying brute out of the way, " said the shakenman sullenly. 

"But it's fraud, in this case, " retorted Average Jones. "A fraud ofwhich you're self-convicted. Get up. " He himself rose and stepped back, but his eye was intent, and his muscles were in readiness. 

There was no more fight in judge "Oily" Ackroyd. He slunk to the stairsand limped heavily down to his frightened and sobbing wife. Miss Grahamleaned against the wall, white and spent. Average Jones, his heart inhis eyes, took a step forward. 

"No!" she said peremptorily. "Don't touch me. I shall be all right. "

"Do you mind my saying, " said he, very low, "that you are the bravestand finest human being I've met in a--a somewhat varied career. "

The girl shuddered. "I could have stood it all, " she said, "but forthose awful, crawling, red creatures. "

"Those?" said Average Jones. "Why, they were my bloodhounds, my littledetectives. There's nothing very awful about those, Sylvia. They've donetheir work as nature gave 'em to do it. I knew that as soon as they gotout, they would find the trail. "

"And what are they?"

"Carrion beetles, " said Average Jones. "Where the vultures of the insectkingdom are gathered together, there the quarry lies. "

Sylvia Graham drew a long breath. "I'm all right now, " she pronounced. "There's nothing left, I suppose, but to leave this house. And to thankyou. How am I ever to thank you?" She lifted her eyes to his. 

"Never mind the thanks, " said Average Jones unevenly. "It was nothing. "

"It was everything! It was wonderful!" cried the girl, and held out herslender hands to him. 

As they clasped warmly upon his, Average Jones' reason lost its balance. He forgot that he was in that house on an equivocal footing; he forgotthat he had exposed and disgraced Sylvia Graham's near relative; heforgot that this was but his third meeting with Sylvia Graham herself;he forgot everything except that the sum total of all that was sweetestand finest and most desirable in womanhood stood warm and vivid beforehim; and, bending over the little, clinging hands, he pressed his lipsto them. Only for a moment. The hands slipped from his. There was aquick, frightened gasp, and the girl's face, all aflush with a new, sweet fearfulness and wondering confusion, vanished behind a ponderousswinging door. 

The young man's knees shook a little as he walked forward and put hislips close to the lintel. 

"Sylvia. "

There was a faint rustle from within. 

"I'm sorry. I mean, I'm glad. Gladder than of anything I've ever done inmy life. "

Silence from within. 

"If I've frightened you, forgive me. I couldn't help it. It was strongerthan I. This isn't the place where I can tell you. Sylvia, I'm goingnow. "

No answer. 

"The work is done, " he continued. "You won't need me any more. " Did hehear, from within, a faint indrawn breath? "Not for any help that I cangive. But I--I shall need you always, and long for you. Listen, theremustn't be any misunderstanding about this, dear. If you send for me, itmust be because you want me; knowing that, when I come, I shall come foryou. Good-by, dear. "

"Good-by. " It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But it echoedin the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears in the whirlingbrain of Average Jones as he walked back to his offices. 

Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word nor signhad come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily as Simpsonentered the inner sanctum with the usual packet of clippings. 

"Leave them, " he ordered. 

"Yes, sir. " The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable. "Anything from yesterday's lot, sir?"

"Haven't looked them over yet. "

"Or day before's?"

"Haven't taken those up either. "

"Pardon me, Mr. Jones. , but--are you ill, sir?"

"No, " snapped Average Jones. 

"Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles. I see in thepaper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours' notice, soI suppose you won't want any more?"

Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson's beetles deeper thanthey had, ever digged for prey. 

"Yes, Sir, " assented Simpson. "But if I might suggest, there's a veryinteresting advertisement in yesterday's paper repeated this morn--"

"I don't want to see it. "

"No, Sir. But--but still--it--it seems to have a strange referenceto the burial of the million-dollar dog, and an invitation that Ithought--"

"Where is it? Give it to me!" For once in his life, high pressure ofexcitement had blotted out Average Jones' drawl. His employee thrustinto his hand this announcement from the Banner of that morning:

 DIED-At 100 West 26th Street, Sept. 14, Peter Paul, a dog, for many years the faithful and fond companion of the late Amelia Van Haltern. Burial in accordance with the wish and will of Mrs. Van Haltern, at the family estate, Schuylkill, Sept. 17, at o'clock. His friend, Don Quixote, is especially bidden to come, if he will. 

Average Jones leaped to his feet. "My parable, " he cried. "Don Quixoteand the damsel in distress. Where's my hat? Where's the time-table?Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn't you make me read this before, confound you! I mean God bless you. Your salary's doubled from to-day. I'm off. "

"Yes, Sir, " said the bewildered Simpson, "but about Ramson's beetles?"

"Tell him, to turn 'em out to pasture and keep 'em as long as they live, at my expense, " called back Average Jones as the door slammed behindhim. 

Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented withthe oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarab beetlered-banded with three deep-hued rubies. 

"But, Average, " she said, and the golden laughter flickered again in thebrown depths of her eyes, "not even you could expect a girl to accept aman through a keyhole. "

"I suppose not, " said Average Jones with a sigh of profoundest content. "Some are for privacy in these matters; others for publicity. But Isuppose I'm the first man in history who ever got his heart's answer inan advertisement. "

THE END