“Then I’m for that course,” decided the editor, after a little consideration, “though I can’t yet make myself believe that Carroll Morrison is party to a deliberate murder plot.” “How the normal mind does shrink from connecting crime with good clothes and a social position!” remarked the Ad-Visor. “Just give me a moment’s time.” The moment he spent jotting down words on a bit of paper, which, after some emendation, he put away. “That’ll do for a heading,” he remarked. “Now, Waldemar, I want you to get the governor on the ’phone and tell him, if he’ll follow directions, we’ll put the personal liberty bill where the wicked cease from troubling. Morrison is to be in the reviewing stand, isn’t he?” “Yes; there’s a special place reserved for him, next the press seats.” “Good! By the way, you’d better send for two press seats for you and myself. Now, what I want: the governor to do is this: get a copy of the Harrisonia Evening Bell, fold it to an advertisement headed ‘Offer to Photographers,’ and as he passes Carroll Morrison on the stand, hold it up and say to him just this: ‘Better luck next time.’ For anything further, I’ll see you in the reviewing stand. Do you think he’ll do it?” “It sounds as foolish as a college initiation stunt. Still, you heard what Governor Arthur said about his confidence in you. But what is this advertisement?” “As yet, it isn’t. But it will be, as soon as I can get to the office of the Bell. You’ll meet me on this corner at seven o’clock, then?” “Yes. Meantime, to be safe, I’ll look after the reviewing stand tickets myself.” At the hour named, the editor arrived. Average Jones was already there, accompanied by a messenger boy. The boy wore the cheerful grin of one who has met with an unexpected favor of fortune. “They’ve returned, both of ’em,” said Average Jones as Waldemar approached. “What about the governor?” “It took a mighty lot of persuasion, but he’ll do it,” replied the editor. “Skip, son,” said the Ad-Visor, handing the messenger boy a folded newspaper. “The two gentlemen on the third floor rear. And be sure you say that it’s a personal, marked copy.” The boy crossed the street and entered the house. In two minutes he emerged, nodded to Average Jones and walked away. Five minutes passed. Then the front door opened cautiously and a tall, evil-looking man slunk into the vestibule. A second man followed him. They glanced eagerly from left to right. Average Jones stepped out to the curb-stone. “Here’s the message from Karboe,” he called. “My God!” gasped the tall man. For an instant he made as if to turn back. Then, clearing the steps at one jump, he stumbled, sprawled, was up again instantly and speeding up the street, away from Average Jones, turned the corner neck and neck with his companion who, running powerfully, had overtaken him.