The editor’s hearty grip on his coat collar heaved the creature to his feet. For a moment he struggled, panting, then spun, helpless and headlong from the room, striking heavily against the passage wall outside. There was a half-choked groan; then his footsteps slumped away into silence. “Ugh!” grunted Waldemar. “Come back, Jones.” Average Jones reentered. “Have you no curiosity in your composition?” he asked. “Not much—having been reared in the newspaper business.” Stooping, Average Jones picked up the glasses which the man had thrown on the floor and examined them carefully. “Rather a fine instrument,” he observed. “Marked N. K. I think I’ll follow up the owner.” “You’ll never find him now. He has too much start.” “Not at all. When a man is in his state of abject funk, it’s ten to one he lands at the nearest bar. Wait for me.” In fifteen minutes Average Jones was back. There was a curious expression on his face as he nodded an assent to his friend’s inquiring eyebrows. “Where?” asked Waldemar. “On the floor of a Park Row saloon.” “Dead drunk, eh?” “No—er; not—er—drunk. Dead.” Waldemar stiffened in his chair. “Dead!” he repeated. “Poison, probably. The ad was his finish, as he said. The next thing is to find it.” “The first edition will be down any minute now. But it’ll take some finding. Why, counting ‘classified,’ we’re carrying fifteen hundred ads in every issue. With no clue to the character of this one—” “Plenty of clue,” said Average Jones suavely. “You’ll find it on the sporting page, I think.” “Judging from the man’s appearance? Rather far-fetched, isn’t it?” “Judging from a pair of very fine binoculars, a mention of Carroll Morrison’s name, and, principally, some two thousand dollars in a huge heap.” “I don’t quite see where that leads.” “No? The bills must have been mostly ones and twos. Those are a book-maker’s takings. The binocular is a racing-man’s glass. Our late friend used the language of the track. I think we’ll find him on page nine.” “Try,” said Waldemar, handing him a paper still spicy with the keen odor of printer’s ink. Swiftly the Ad-Visor’s practiced eye ran over the column. It checked at the “offer” of a notorious firm of tipsters who advertised to sell “inside information” on the races to their patrons. As a special lure, they were, on this day, letting the public in on a few particularly “good things” free. “There you are,” said Average Jones, pointing out the advertisement. To his astonishment, Waldemar noted that his friend’s indicatory finger shook a little. Normally, Average Jones was the coolest and most controlled of men. “Noble and Gale’s form ad,” he observed. “I see nothing unusual in that.” “Yet—er—I fancy it’s quite important—er—in its way.” The editor stared. “When you talk like a bored Britisher, Average,” he remarked, “there’s sure to be something in the air. What is it?” “Look at the last line.”