Waldemar conned the designated building with attention. “Well,” he said finally, “what of it? I don’t see anything wrong with it.” “Precisely my point,” returned the Ad-Visor with a grin. “Neither do I. Therefore, suppose you go there and order luncheon for two, while I walk down to the next block and back again. I’ll be with you in four minutes.” He was somewhat better than his word. Dropping into the chair opposite his friend, he figured swiftly and briefly on the back of an envelope, which he returned to his pocket. “I suppose you’ve done a vast amount of investigating since you left me,” remarked the editor sardonically. “Meanwhile, the plot to murder the governor goes merrily on.” “I’ve done a fair amount of pacing over distance,” retorted Average Jones imperturbably. “As for the governor, they can’t kill him till he comes, can they? Besides, there’s plenty of time for them to change their minds. As a result of my little constitutional just now, and a simple exercise in mathematics, you and I will call at a house on Spencer Street, the next street north, after luncheon.” “What house?” “Ah! that I don’t know, as yet. We’ll see when we get there.” Comfortably fed, the two strolled up to Spencer Street and turned into it, Average Jones eying the upper windows of the houses. He stopped in front of an old-fashioned frame structure, which was built on a different plan of floor level from its smaller neighbors of brick. Up the low steps went Jones, followed by the editor. An aged lady, of the species commonly, conjectured as “maiden,” opened the door. “Madam,” said Average Jones, “could we rent your third floor rear for this evening?” “No, sir,” said she. “It’s rented.” “Perhaps I could buy the renters off,” suggested Jones. “Could I see them?” “Both out,” she answered shortly. “And I don’t believe you could get the room from them, for they’re all fixed up to take photographs of the parade.” “Indee-ee-eed,” drawled Average Jones, in accents so prolonged, even for him, that Waldemar’s interest flamed within him. “I—er—ra—ra-aather hoped—er—when do you expect them back?” “About four o’clock.” “Thank you. Please tell them that—er—Mr. Nick Karboe called.” “For heaven’s sake, Average,” rumbled Waldemar, as they regained the pavement, “why did you use the dead man’s name? It gave me a shiver.” “It’ll give them a worse one,” replied the Ad-Visor grimly. “I want to prepare their nerves for a subsequent shock. If you’ll meet me here this evening at seven, I think I can promise you a queer spectacle.” “And meantime?” “On that point I want your advice. Shall we make a sure catch of two hired assassins who don’t amount to much, or take a chance at the bigger game?” “Meaning Morrison?” “Meaning Morrison. Incidentally, if we get him we’ll be able to kill the Personal Liberty bill so dead it will never raise its head again.”