“Mr. Jones,” he said, “you’ve done me the service of saving my life; you’ve done the public the service of killing a vicious bill. I wish I could thank you more publicly than this.” “Thank you, Governor,” said Average’ Jones modestly. “But I owed the public something, you know, on account of, my uncle, the late Mayor Van Reypen.” Governor Arthur nodded. “The debt is paid,” he said. “That knowledge must be your reward; that and the consciousness of having worked out a remarkable and original problem.” “Original?” said Average Jones, eying the diagram on the envelope’s back, with his quaint smile. “Why, Governor, you’re giving me too much credit. It was worked out by one of the greatest detectives of all time, some two thousand years ago. His name was Euclid.” CHAPTER XI. THE MILLION-DOLLAR DOG To this day, Average Jones maintains that he felt a distinct thrill at first sight of the advertisement. Yet Fate might well have chosen a more appropriate ambush in any one of a hundred of the strange clippings which were grist to the Ad-Visor’s mill. Out of a bulky pile of the day’s paragraphs, however, it was this one that leaped, significant, to his eye. WANTED—Ten thousand loathly black beetles, by A leaseholder who contracted to leave a house in the same condition as he found it. Ackroyd, 100 W. Sixteenth St. New York “Black beetles, eh?” observed Average Jones. “This Ackroyd person seems to be a merry little jester. Well, I’m feeling rather jocular, myself, this morning. How does one collect black beetles, I wonder? When in doubt, inquire of the resourceful Simpson.” He pressed a button and his confidential clerk entered. “Good morning, Simpson,” said Average Jones. “Are you acquainted with that shy but pervasive animal, the domestic black beetle?” “Yes, sir; I board,” said Simpson simply. “I suppose there aren’t ten thousand black beetles in your boarding-house, though?” inquired Average Jones. Simpson took it under advisement. “Hardly,” he decided. “I’ve got to have ’em to fill an order. At least, I’ve got to have an installment of ’em, and to-morrow.” Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk was impervious to surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise, his employment as practical aide to Average Jones would probably have driven him into a madhouse. He now ran his long, thin, clerkly hands through his long, thin, clerkly hair. “Ramson, down on Fulton Street, will have them, if any one has,” he said presently. “He does business under the title of the Insect Nemesis, you know. I’ll go there at once.”