“Those letters, Mr. Prentice,” pursued the Ad-Visor, “measure just three feet from top to bottom. The phrase ‘three feet high’ which so puzzled you, as combined with the adjectives of great size, was obviously a printer’s direction. All through the smudged ‘copy,’ which you threw away, there run alliterative lines, ‘Stupendous Scientific Sensation,’ ‘Veritable Visitor Void’ and finally ‘Marvelous Man-l—Monster.’ Only one trade is irretrievably committed to and indubitably hall-marked by alliteration, the circus trade. You’ll recall that Farley insensibly fell into the habit even in his advertisement; ‘lost lad,’ ‘retained for ransom’ and ‘Mortimer Morley.’ Therefore I had the combination circus poster, an alleged meteor which burned a barn in a highly suspicious manner, and an apparently purposeless kidnapping. The inference was as simple as it was certain. The two strangers with Tuxall’s aid, had prepared the fake meteor with a view to exploiting the star-man. Bailey had literally tumbled into the plot. They didn’t know how much he had seen. The whole affair hinged on his being kept quiet. So they took him along. All that I had to do, then, was to find the deviser of the three-foot poster. He was sure to be Bailey’s abductor.” “Say,” said Farley with conviction, “I believe you’re the devil’s first cousin.” “When you left me in Harwick,” said the Reverend Peter Prentice, before Average Jones could acknowledge this flattering surmise, “you said that strangers had done the kidnapping. How did you tell they were strangers then?” “From the fact that they didn’t know who Bailey was, and had to advertise 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 the clothes on the shore; the other, more compassionate, that promulgated the advertisement.” “Finally, then, how could you know that Bailey was injured and unconscious?” “If he hadn’t been unconscious then and for long after, he’d have revealed his identity to his captors, wouldn’t he?” explained the Ad-Visor. There was a long pause. Then the woman said timidly: “Well, and now what?” “Nothing,” answered Average Jones. “Tuxall has got away. Mr. Prentice has recovered his son. You and Farley have had your lesson. And I—” “Yes, and you, Mr. Detective-man,” said the woman, as he paused. “What do you get out of it?” Average Jones cast an affectionate glance at the sprawling legend which disfigured his floor. “A unique curio in my own special line,” he replied. “An ad which never has been published and never will be. That’s enough for me.” There was a double knock at the door, and Mr. Algernon Spofford burst in, 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 and kicking, eh?” “Yes; I’ve found him and them,” replied Average Jones.