Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisive shrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Only one imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopher scholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief of Enderby’s calibre. Enderby’s expression told that the shot was a true one. As for Bertram, he had dropped his shoemaker’s knife and his shoemaker’s role. “Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of Ignatius Donnelly!” 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 Roman speaking perfect English.” Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the bench where the false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward Average Jones. At the moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunched into a highly competent fist, flicked across and caught the assailant under the ear. Enderby, alias Livius, fell as if smitten by a cestus. As his arm touched the floor, Average Jones kicked unerringly at the wrist and the knife flew and tinkled in a far corner. Bertram, with a bound, landed on the 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 and confess. Ease up a little on him, Bert. Take a look at that scar of his first though.” “Superficial cut treated with make-up paint; a clever job,” pronounced Bertram after a quick examination. “As I supposed,” said Average Jones. “Let me in on the deal,” pleaded Livius. “That letter is worth ten thousand, twelve thousand, fifteen thousand dollars—anything you want to ask, if you find the right purchaser. And you can’t manage it without me. Let me in.” “Thinks we’re crooks, too?” remarked Average Jones. “Exactly what’s in this wonderful letter?” “It’s from Bacon to the author of the book, who wrote about 1610. Bacon prophesies that Shakespeare, ‘this vagabond and humble mummer’ would outshine and outlive in fame all the genius of his time. That’s all I could make out by loosening the stitches.” “Well, that _is_ worth anything one could demand,” said Warren in a somewhat awed tone. “Why didn’t you get the letter when you were examining it at the auction room?” 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 no one was watching, and had gone to get cash to buy the book; but the auctioneer put it up out of turn and old Graeme got it. Bring it to me and I’ll show you the ‘pursed’ cover. Many of the Percival books were bound that way.” “We’ve never had it, nor seen it,” replied Average Jones. “The advertisement was only a trap into which you stepped.”