To this day, Average Jones maintains that he felt a distinct thrillat first sight of the advertisement. Yet Fate might well havechosen a more appropriate ambush in any one of a hundred of thestrange clippings which were grist to the Ad-Visor's mill. Out of abulky pile of the day's paragraphs, however, it was this one thatleaped, significant, to his 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 personseems to be a merry little jester. Well, I'm feeling ratherjocular, myself, this morning. How does one collect black beetles,I wonder? When in doubt, 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, thedomestic black 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 havean installment of 'em, and to-morrow."
Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk wasimpervious to surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise,his employment as practical aide to Average Jones would probablyhave driven him into a madhouse. He now ran his long, thin, clerklyhands through his long, thin, clerkly hair.
"Ramson, down on Fulton Street, will have them, if any one has," hesaid presently. "He does business under the title of the InsectNemesis, you know. 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 wayto temptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked himto come to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience.Scenting more adventure, Bertram found it convenient to comepromptly. Average Jones handed him the clipping. Bertram read itwith 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 isto tap your flow of information about old New York. What's at OneHundred West Sixteenth Street?"
"One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it's theold Feltner mansion. You must know it. It has a walled garden atthe 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's a smooth old rascal."
"Indeed? What particular sort?"
"Oh, most sorts, in private. Professionally, he's a legislativecrook; head lobbyist of the Consolidated."
"Ever hear of his collecting insects?"
"Never heard of his collecting anything but graft. In fact, he'dhave been in jail years ago, but for his family connections. Hemarried a Van Haltern. You remember the famous Van Haltern willcase, surely; the million-dollar dog. The papers fairly, reeked ofit a year ago. Sylvia Graham had to take the dog and leave thecountry to escape the notoriety. She's back now, I believe."
"I've heard of Miss Graham," remarked Average Jones, "throughfriends of mine whom she visits."
"Well, if you've only heard of her and not seen her," returnedBertram, with something as nearly resembling enthusiasm as hishabitual languor permitted, "you've got something to look forwardto. Sylvia Graham is a distinct asset to the Scheme of Creation."
"An asset with assets of her own, I believe," said Average Jones."The million dollars left by her grandmother, old Mrs. Van Haltern,goes to her eventually; doesn't it?"
"Provided she carries out the terms of the will, keeps the dog inproper luxury and buries him in the grave on the family estate atSchuylkill designated by the testator. If these terms are notrigidly carried out, the fortune is to be divided, most of it goingto Mrs. Hawley Ackroyd, which would mean the judge himself. Ishould say that the dog was as good as sausage meat if 'Oily' evergets hold of him."
"H'm. What about Mrs. Ackroyd?"
"Poor, sickly, frightened lady! She's very fond of Sylvia Graham,who is her niece. But she's completely dominated by her husband."
"Information is your long suit, Bert. Now, if you only hadintelligence to correspond--" Average Jones broke off and grinnedmildly, first at his friend, then at the advertisement.
Bertram caught up the paper and studied it. "Well, what does itmean?" he demanded.
"It means that Ackroyd, being about to give up his rented house,intends to saddle it with a bad name. Probably he's had a row withthe agent or owner, and is getting even by making the placedifficult to rent again. Nobody wants to take a house with thereputation of an entomological resort."
"It would be just like Oily Ackroyd," remarked Bertram. "He's avindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poordevil of a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed tokeep it out of 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 blackbeetles are out of season, sir," he reported. "But he can send tothe country and dig up plenty of red-and-black ones."
"That will do," returned the Ad-Visor. "Tell him to have two orthree hundred here to-morrow morning."
Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. "Meaning that you'regoing to follow 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 worththe money."
"When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you,look out 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 ofa beetle-purveyor correctly, and also in case I get 'em torn in mymeeting with judge 'Oily.' I'll see you later--and report, if Isurvive his wrath."
Thus it was that, on the morning after this dialogue, a clean-builtyoung fellow walked along West Sixteenth Street, appreciativelysniffing the sunny crispness of the May air. He was rather shabbylooking, yet his demeanor was by no means shabby. It was confidentand easy. On the evidence of the bandbox which he carried, hismission should have been menial; but he bore himself wholly unlikeone subdued to petty employments. His steady, gray eyes showed aglint of anticipation as he turned in at the gate of the high,broad, brown house standing back, aloof and indignant, from theroaring encroachments of trade. He set his burden down and, pulledthe bell.
The door opened promptly to the deep, far-away clangor. A flashingimpression of girlish freshness, vigor, and grace was disclosed tothe caller against a background of interior gloom. He stared alittle more patently than was polite. Whatever his expectation ofamusement, this, evidently, was not the manifestation looked for.The girl glanced not at him, but at the box, and spoke a trifleimpatiently.
"If it's my hat, it's very late. You should have gone to thebasement."
"It isn't, miss," said the young man, in a form of address, thesemi-servility of which seemed distinctly out of tone with thequietly clear 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 backon that, 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 themid-tone contralto, to a high, bird-like trill of joyousness. Theinfection of it tugged at the young man's throat, but hesuccessfully preserved his mask of flat and respectful dullness.
"It must have been Uncle," she gasped finally. "He said he'd bequits with the real estate agent before he left. How perfectlyabsurd! And are those the creatures in that box?"
"The first couple of hundred of 'em, miss."
"Two hundred!" Again the access of laughter swelled the roundedbosom as the breeze fills a sail. "Where did you get them?"
"Woodpile, ash-heap, garbage-pail," said the young man stolidly."Any particular 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 querulousvoice from 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 comprendspas du tout. Cest une blague, peut-etre. Si on l'invitait dans lamaison pour un 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 twolarge patches of crimson gave him the festive appearance of beinggarbed in a brilliant sash. As he stood rubbing his fore-legstogether in self-congratulation over his exploit, his beareraddressed him in French quite as ready as the girl's:
"Permettez-moi, Monsieur le Colioptere, de vous presenter mesexcuses pour cette demoiselle qui s'exprime en langue etrangere chezelle."
"Don't apologize to the beetle on my account," retorted the girlwith spirit. "You're here on your own terms, you know, both ofyou."
Average Jones mutely held up the box in one hand and theadvertisement in the other. The adventurer-bug flourished afarewell to the girl with his antennae, and retired within to advisehis fellows of the charms of freedom.
"Very well," said the girl, in demure tones, though lambent mirthstill flickered, golden, in the depths of the brown eyes. "If youpersist, I can only suggest that you come back when Judge Ackroyd ishere. You won't find him particularly amenable to humor,particularly when perpetrated by a practical joker in masquerade."
"Discovered," murmured Average Jones. "I shouldn't have vaunted mypoor French. But must I really take my little friends all the wayback? You suggested to the mystic voice within that I might beinvited 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 voicebroke in again, this time too low for his ears.
"I don't ask you the real reason for your extraordinary call,"pursued the girl with a glint of mischief in her eyes, after she hadresponded in an aside, "but auntie thinks you've come to steal mydog. She thinks that of every one lately."
"Auntie? Your dog? Then you're Sylvia Graham. I might have knownit."
"I don't know how you might have known it. But I am Sylvia Graham--if you insist on introducing me to yourself."
"Miss Graham," said the visitor promptly and gravely, "let mepresent A.V.R.E. Jones: a friend--"
"Not the famous Average Jones!" cried the girl. "That is why yourface seemed so familiar. I've seen your picture at Edna Hale's.You got her 'blue fires' back for her. But really, that hardlyexplains your being here, 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--as if it might--er--be more serious."
A tinge of pink came into the girl's cheeks, but she answeredlightly enough:
"Indeed, it may, for you, if uncle finds you here with thosebeetles."
"Never mind me or the beetles. I'd like to know about the dog thatyour aunt is worrying over. Is he here with you?"
The soft curve of Miss Graham's lips straightened a little. "Ireally think," she said with decision, "that you had better explainfurther before questioning."
"Nothing simpler. Once upon a time there lived a crack-brainedyoung Don Quixote who wandered through an age of buried romancepiously searching for trouble. And, twice upon a time, there dweltin an enchanted stone castle in West Sixteenth Street an enchantingyoung damsel in distress--"
"I'm not a damsel in distress," interrupted Miss Graham, passingover the adjective.
The young man leaned to her. The half smile had passed from hislips, 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 andimpertinent."
"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,believes that your dog is in danger of being stolen. Why? Becauseshe knows that the person most interested has been scheming againstthe animal, and yet she is afraid to warn you openly. Doesn't thatindicate who it is?"
"Mr. Jones, I've no right even to let you talk like this to me.Have you anything 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,and return to your home at once."
In spite of herself the girl was shaken by his persistence. "Ican't do that," she said uneasily. And added, with a flash ofanger, "I think you had 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--andagain. Give me a chance; a moment,"
Average Jones' mind was of the emergency type. It summoned to itsaid, without effort of cerebration on the part of its owner,whatever was most needed at the moment. Now it came to his rescuewith the memory of judge Ackroyd's encounter with the drug clerk, asmentioned by Bertram. There was a strangely hopeful suggestion ofsome link between a drug-store quarrel and the arrival of amillion-dollar dog, "better dead" in the hopes of his host.
"Miss Graham; I've gone rather far, I'll admit," said Jones; "but,if you'll give me the benefit of the doubt, I think I can show yousome basis to work on. If I can produce something tangible, may Icome back here this afternoon? I'll promise not to come unless Ihave good reason."
"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 experienced adistinct 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 judgeAckroyd was involved last week?"
"Uncle has a very violent temper," admitted the girl evasively."But I don'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 cyanideof potassium, 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 farenough?"
"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 Jones sodryly 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. "Hasyour uncle taken him out, at all?"
"Once he tried to. I met them at the corner. All four of PeterPaul's poor old fat legs were braced, and he was hauling back ashard as he could 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,and more strain for auntie, who is nervous enough, anyway. No, Ican't do that."
"Do you realize that every day Peter Paul remains here is an addedopportunity for judge Ackroyd to make a million dollars, or a bigshare of it, by some very simple stratagem?"
"I haven't admitted yet that I believe my uncle to be a--amurderer," 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 muchif Peter 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. Oncedead, and buried in accordance with the terms of the will, the dogwould be out of his troubles, and you would be out of yours."
"It would really be a relief. Peter Paul suffers so from asthma,poor old beastie. The vet says he can live only a month or twolonger, anyway. But I've got to do as Grandmother wished, and keepPeter Paul alive 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 themoment, the circumstances of our meeting, and think of me only as afriend of your friends who is very honestly eager to be a friend toyou, when you most 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 rareflashes of companionship which come only when clean and honorablespirits recognize one another, all consciousness of sex was lostbetween them. The girl's gaze met the man's level, and was held ina long, silent regard.
"Yes," she said simply; and the heart of Average Jones rose andswore a high loyalty.
"Listen, then. I think I see a clear way. Judge Ackroyd will killthe dog if he can, and so effectually conceal the body that nofuneral can be held over it, thereby rendering your grandmother'sbequest to you void. He has only a few days to do it in, but Idon't think that all your watchfulness can restrain him. Now, onthe other hand, if the dog should die a natural death and be buried,he can still contest the will. But if he should kill Peter Paul andhide the body where we could discover it, the game would be up forhim, as he then wouldn't even dare to come into court with acontest. 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 bestto save Peter Paul, if you will. And please call me up immediatelyat the Cosmic 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 rescuingprospectively distressed damsels?"
"Technically it's advertising," replied Average Jones, who had beenformulating a shrewd little plan of his own. "Let me recommend toyou the advertising columns of the daily press. They're oftenamusing. Moreover your uncle might break out in print again. Whoknows?"
"Who, indeed? I'll read religiously."
"And, by the way, my beetles. I forgot and left them here. Oh,there's the box. I may have a very specific use for them later. Aurevoir--and may it be soon!"
The two days succeeding seemed to Average Jones, haunted as he wasby an importunate craving to look again into Miss Graham's limpidand changeful eyes, a dull and sodden period of probation. Themessenger boy who finally brought her expected note, looked to himlike a Greek godling. 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.) Theenclosed seems to be distinctly in our line. Could you come sometime this afternoon? I'm puzzled and a little anxious.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Graham.
Average Jones could, and did. He found Miss Graham's piquant faceunder the stress of excitement, distinctly more alluring thanbefore.
"Isn't it strange?" she said, holding out a hand in welcome. "Whyshould any 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 aswell, 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,and his quick glance caught the storm signal in her eyes, "youruncle," he concluded calmly.
For one fleeting instant a dimple flickered at the corner of hermouth. 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,as I'm not sure, myself. I may want to quarrel with him."
"You won't have the slightest difficulty in that," the girl assuredhim.
She rang the bell, dispatched a servant, and presently judge Ackroydstalked into the room. As Average Jones was being presented, hetook comprehensive note and estimate of the broad-cheeked,thin-lipped face; the square shoulders and corded neck, and thelithe and formidable carriage of the man. Judge "Oily" Ackroyd'sgreeting of the guest within his gates did not bear out thesobriquet of his public life. It was curt to the verge ofharshness.
"What is the market quotation on beetles, judge?" asked the youngman, tapping the rug with his stick.
"What are you talking about?" demanded the other, drawing down hisheavy brows.
"The black beetle; the humble but brisk haunter of householdcrevices," explained Average Jones. "You advertised for tenthousand specimens. I've got a few thousand I'd like to dispose of,if the inducements are sufficient."
"I'm in no mood for joking, young man," retorted the other, rising.
"You seldom are, I understand," replied Average Jones blandly."Well, if you 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 hishost's glowering 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,and abruptly left the room.
"Were you wise to anger him?" asked the girl, as the heavy treaddied away on the stairs.
"Sometimes open declaration of war is the soundest strategy."
"War?" she repeated. "You make me feel like a traitor to my ownfamily."
"That's the unfortunate part of it," he said; "but it can't behelped."
"You spoke of having some one guard the corners of the block,"continued the girl, after a thoughtful silence. "Do you think I'dbetter arrange for 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,"explained its deviser.
"I see," said the girl. "Any one who attempts to take Peter Paulaway will be tracked by a band of boy detectives. A stroke ofgenius, 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," saidhe, "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 tothink of you as setting those boys to an impossible task."
"Oh, bless you!" returned the Ad-Visor heartily; "that's allarranged for. One of my men will duly parade with a canineespecially obtained for the occasion. I'm not going to swindle theyoungsters."
"It didn't seem like you," returned Miss Graham warmly. "But youmust let 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 veinsand thickened 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 knowyou haven't once disappointed me in speech or action during ourshort but rather eventful acquaintance?"
"I hope you'll be able to say the same ten years from now," hereturned significantly.
She flushed a little at the implication. "What am I to do next?"she asked.
"Do as you would ordinarily do; only don't take Peter Paul, into thestreet, or you'll have a score of high-school boys trailing you.And--this is the most important--if the dog fails to answer yourcall at any time, and you can't readily find him by searching,telephone me, at once, at my office. Good-by."
"I think you are a very staunch friend to those who need you," shesaid, 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 hebanished them, when, two days later, the telephone brought him herclear 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 disarrangedearth. I don't think you'll find it, but it's well to be sure. Letme in at the basement door at half-past one. Judge Ackroyd mustn'tsee me."
It was a strangely misshapen presentation of the normallyspick-and-span Average Jones that gently rang the basement bell ofthe old house at the specified hour. All his pockets bulged withlumpy angles. Immediately, upon being admitted by Miss Grahamherself, he proceeded to disenburden himself of box after box, suchas elastic bands come in, all exhibiting a homogeneous peculiarity,a hole at one end thinly covered with a gelatinous 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!"she cried. "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,"he concluded in the manner of one who picks his words carefully,"that it may turn out to be just the most serious matter in theworld to me."
"As bad as that?" she queried, but the color that flamed in hercheeks belied 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 everyroom in the house, if possible, except on your floor, which isprobably out of the reckoning. Do you think you could manage itsoon?"
"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," saidMiss Graham, the provocative smile quirking at the comers of hermouth.
"Doubtless," returned the other dryly. "If you strictly followdirections, I'll undertake to satisfy it in time. Four o'clocksharp, I'll be here. Don't be frightened whatever happens. Youkeep ready, but out of the way, until I call you. Good-by."
With even more than his usual nicety was Average Jones attired,when, at four o'clock, he sent his card to judge Ackroyd. Smallfavor, however, did his appearance find, in the scowling eyes of thejudge.
"What do you want?" he growled.
"I'll take a cigar, thank you very much," said Average Jonesinnocently.
"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 olderman to an 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 youngp-p-p-pup," he stuttered in his rage.
His knotted fingers writhed out for a hold on the other's collar.With a sinuous movement, the visitor swerved aside and struck theother man, flat-handed, across the face. There was an answeringhowl of demoniac fury. Then a strange thing happened. Theassailant turned and fled, not to the ready egress of the frontdoor, but down the dark stairway to the basement. The judgethundered after, in maddened, unthinking pursuit. Average Jones ranfleetly and easily. And his running was not for the purpose offlight alone, for as he sped through the basement rooms, he keptcasting swift glances from side to side, and up and down the walls.The heavyweight pursuer could not get nearer than half a dozenpaces.
From the kitchen Average Jones burst into the hallway, doubled backup the stairs and made a tour of the big drawing-rooms andliving-rooms of the first floor. Here, too, his glance swept roomafter room, from floor to ceiling. The chase then led upward to thesecond floor, and by direct ascent to the third. Breathing heavily,judge Ackroyd lumbered after the more active man. In his doggedrage, he never thought to stop and block the hall-way; but trailedhis quarry like a bloodhound through every room of the third floor,and upward to the fourth. Half-way up this stairway, Average Joneschecked his speed and surveyed the hall above. As he started againhe stumbled and sprawled. A more competent observer than theinfuriated pursuer might have noticed that he fell cunningly. Butjudge Ackroyd gave a shout of savage triumph and increased hisspeed. He stretched his hand to grip the fugitive. It had almosttouched him 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 ahall-embrasure hung a full-length mirror. All along the borders ofthis, Average Jones' quick ranging vision had discerned smallred-banded objects which moved and shifted. As the glass reflectedhis extended figure, it showed, almost at the same instant, theoutstretched, bony hand of "Oily" Ackroyd. With a snarl, half rage,half satisfaction, the pursuer hurled himself forward--and fell,with a plunge that rattled the house's old bones. For, as hereached, Jones, trained on many a foot-ball field, had whirled anddived at his knees. Before the fallen man could gather his shakenwits, he was pinned with the most disabling grip known in thescience of combat, a strangle-hold with the assailant's wristclamped in below and behind the ear. Average Jones lifted his voiceand the name that came to his lips was the name that had lurkedsubconsciously, in his 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 thesharp ascent like a deer, her eyes blazing with resolve and courage.
"The mirror," said Average Jones. "Push it aside. Pull it down.Get behind it somehow. Lie quiet, Ackroyd or I'll have to chokeyour worthless head off."
With an effort of nervous strength, the girl lifted aside the bigglass. Behind it a hundred scarlet banded insects swarmed andscampered.
"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 beetlesfled in all directions. And now, judge Ackroyd found his voice.
"Help!" he roared. "Murder!"
The sinewy pressure of Average Jones' wrist smothered furtherattempts at vocality to a gurgle. He looked up into Sylvia Graham'stense, face, and jerked his head toward the opening.
"Unless my little detectives have deceived me," he said, "you'llfind the body in there."
She groped, and drew forth a large box. In it was packed the bodyof Peter Paul. There was a cord about the fat neck.
"Strangled," whispered the girl. "Poor old doggie!" Then shewhirled upon the prostrate man. "You murderer!" she said very low.
"It's not murder to put a dying brute out of the way," said theshaken man sullenly.
"But it's fraud, in this case," retorted Average Jones. "A fraud ofwhich you're self-convicted. Get up." He himself rose and steppedback, but his eye was intent, and his muscles were in readiness.
There was no more fight in judge "Oily" Ackroyd. He slunk to thestairs and limped heavily down to his frightened and sobbing wife.Miss Graham leaned against the wall, white and spent. AverageJones, his heart in his eyes, took a step forward.
"No!" she said peremptorily. "Don't touch me. I shall be allright"
"Do you mind my saying," said he, very low, "that you are thebravest and finest human being I've met in a--a somewhat variedcareer."
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, mylittle detectives. There's nothing very awful about those, Sylvia.They've done their work as nature gave 'em to do it. I knew that assoon as they got out, they would find the trail."
"And what are they?"
"Carrion beetles," said Average Jones. "Where the vultures of theinsect kingdom are gathered together, there the quarry lies."
Sylvia Graham drew a long breath. "I'm all right now," shepronounced. "There's nothing left, I suppose, but to leave thishouse. And to thank you. How am I ever to thank you?" She liftedher eyes to his.
"Never mind the thanks," said Average Jones unevenly. "It wasnothing."
"It was everything! It was wonderful!" cried the girl, and held outher slender hands to him.
As they clasped warmly upon his, Average Jones' reason lost itsbalance. He forgot that he was in that house on an equivocalfooting; he forgot that he had exposed and disgraced Sylvia Graham'snear relative; he forgot that this was but his third meeting withSylvia Graham herself; he forgot everything except that the sumtotal of all that was sweetest and finest and most desirable inwomanhood stood warm and vivid before him; and, bending over thelittle, clinging hands, he pressed his lips to them. Only for amoment. The hands slipped from his. There was a quick, frightenedgasp, and the girl's face, all aflush with a new, sweet fearfulnessand wondering confusion, vanished behind a ponderous swinging door.
The young man's knees shook a little as he walked forward and puthis lips 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 everdone in my life."
Silence from within.
"If I've frightened you, forgive me. I couldn't help it. It wasstronger than I. This isn't the place where I can tell you. Sylvia,I'm going now."
No answer.
"The work is done," he continued. "You won't need me any more."Did he hear, from within, a faint indrawn breath? "Not for any helpthat I can give. But I--I shall need you always, and long for you.Listen, there mustn't be any misunderstanding about this, dear. Ifyou send for me, it must be because you want me; knowing that, whenI come, I shall come for you. Good-by, dear."
"Good-by." It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But itechoed in the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears inthe whirling brain of Average Jones as he walked back to hisoffices.
Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word norsign had come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily asSimpson entered the inner sanctum with the usual packet ofclippings.
"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 inthe paper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours'notice, so I suppose you won't want any more?"
Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson's beetles deeperthan they had, ever digged for prey.
"Yes, Sir," assented Simpson. "But if I might suggest, there's avery interesting advertisement in yesterday's paper repeated thismorn--"
"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 pressureof excitement had blotted out Average Jones' drawl. His employeethrust into his hand this announcement from the Banner of thatmorning:
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. "DonQuixote and the damsel in distress. Where's my hat? Where's thetime-table? Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn't you make meread this before, confound you! I mean God bless you. Yoursalary's doubled from to-day. I'm off."
"Yes, Sir," said the bewildered Simpson, "but about Ramson'sbeetles?"
"Tell him, to turn 'em out to pasture and keep 'em as long as theylive, at my expense," called back Average Jones as the door slammedbehind him.
Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented withthe oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarabbeetle red-banded with three deep-hued rubies.
"But, Average," she said, and the golden laughter flickered again inthe brown depths of her eyes, "not even you could expect a girl toaccept a man through a keyhole."
"I suppose not," said Average Jones with a sigh of profoundestcontent. "Some are for privacy in these matters; others forpublicity. But I suppose I'm the first man in history who ever gothis heart's answer in an advertisement."
THE END