Between the ebb and flow of applicant musicians he read exhaustively upon the unallied subjects of trombones and high explosives, or talked with his landlady, who proved to be a sociable person, not disinclined to discuss the departed guest. “Ransom,” his supplanter learned, had come light and gone light. Two dress suit cases had sufficed to bring in all his belongings. He went out but little, and then, she opined with a disgustful sniff, for purposes strictly alcoholic. Parcels came for him occasionally. These were usually labeled “Glass. Handle with care.” Oh! there was one other thing. A huge, easy arm-chair from Carruthers and Company, 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 here practicing.” “Did—er—you ever—er—see this musician?” drawled Average Jones in the slow 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 a natural.” “Yes?” Average Jones peered out of the window. “Is this the man, coming up the street?” “It surely is,” said the old lady. “Now, _Mister_ Jones, if he commences his blaring and blatting and—“. “There’ll be no more music, ma’am,” promised the young man, laughing, as she went out to answer the door-bell. The musician, ushered in, looked about him, an expression of bewildered and 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 way up-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 in Brooklyn.” Mr. Schlichting made large and expansive gestures. “It iss a pleasure to play 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,” he explained, brightening. Upon that surprising phrase Average Jones pondered. “You were not to play unless there were feet the window,” he said at length. “Was that it?”