Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the huge book-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copious notes. Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered. But one morning 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. To judge from the older man’s impatient manner the Roman was interrupting his host’s current of queries with interrogations of his own. Average Jones made a mental note, and, in conference with Warren that evening, asked him to ascertain from Colonel Graeme whether Livius’s inquiries had indicated a specific interest in any particular line of reading. On the following day, however, an event of more immediate import occupied his mind. He had spent the morning in the up-stairs library, at the unevadable suggestion of Colonel Graeme, while the colonel and his Roman collogued below. Coming down about noon, Average Jones entered the colonel’s small study just in time to see Livius, who was alone in the room, turn away sharply from the desk. His elbow was held close to his ribs in a peculiar manner. He was concealing something under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness, Average Jones stumbled against him in passing. Livius drew away, his high forehead working with suspicion. The Ad-Visor’s expression of blank apology, eked out with a bow and a grimace, belied the busy-working mind within. For, in the moment’s contact, he had heard the crisp rustle of paper from beneath the ill-fitting coat. What paper had the man from B. C. taken furtively from his benefactor’s table? It must be large; otherwise he could have readily thrust it into his pocket. No sooner was Livius out of the room than Average Jones scanned the desk. His face lighted with a sudden smile. Colonel Graeme never read a newspaper; boasted, in fact, that he wouldn’t have one about the place. But, as Average Jones distinctly recalled, he had, himself, that very morning brought, in a copy of the _Globe_ and dropped it into the scrap basket near the writing-table. It was gone. Livius had taken it. “If he’s got the newspaper-reading habit,” said Average Jones to himself, “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 and exhaustive, covering the main points of the case from the beginning. “Did you find out from Colonel Graeme,” inquired Average Jones, “whether Livius, affected any particular brand of literature?” “Yes. He seems to be specializing on late seventeenth century British classicism. Apparently he considers that the flower of British scholarship 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.”