Returning to his routine work, Average Jones found himself unable to dislodge the advertisement from his mind. So presently he gave way to temptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked him to come to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience. Scenting more adventure, Bertram found it convenient to come promptly. Average Jones handed him the clipping. Bertram read it with ascending eyebrows. “Hoots!” he said. “The man’s mad.” “I didn’t ask you here to diagnose the advertiser’s trouble. That’s plain enough—though you’ve made a bad guess. What I want of you is to tap your flow of information about old New York. What’s at One Hundred West Sixteenth Street?” “One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it’s the old Feltner mansion. You must know it. It has a walled garden at the side; the only one left in the city, south of Central Park.” “Any one named Ackroyd there?” “That must be Hawley Ackroyd. I remember, now, hearing that he had rented it. Judge Ackroyd, you know, better known as ‘Oily’ Ackroyd. He’s a smooth old rascal.” “Indeed? What particular sort?” “Oh, most sorts, in private. Professionally, he’s a legislative crook; head lobbyist of the Consolidated.” “Ever hear of his collecting insects?” “Never heard of his collecting anything but graft. In fact, he’d have been in jail years ago, but for his family connections. He married a Van Haltern. You remember the famous Van Haltern will case, surely; the million-dollar dog. The papers fairly, reeked of it a year ago. Sylvia Graham had to take the dog and leave the country to escape the notoriety. She’s back now, I believe.” “I’ve heard of Miss Graham,” remarked Average Jones, “through friends of mine whom she visits.” “Well, if you’ve only heard of her and not seen her,” returned Bertram, with something as nearly resembling enthusiasm as his habitual languor permitted, “you’ve got something to look forward to. Sylvia Graham is a distinct asset to the Scheme of Creation.” “An asset with assets of her own, I believe,” said Average Jones. “The million dollars left by her grandmother, old Mrs. Van Haltern, goes to her eventually; doesn’t it?” “Provided she carries out the terms of the will, keeps the dog in proper luxury and buries him in the grave on the family estate at Schuylkill designated by the testator. If these terms are not rigidly carried out, the fortune is to be divided, most of it going to Mrs. Hawley Ackroyd, which would mean the judge himself. I should say that the dog was as good as sausage meat if ‘Oily’ ever gets hold of him.” “H’m. What about Mrs. Ackroyd?” “Poor, sickly, frightened lady! She’s very fond of Sylvia Graham, who is her niece. But she’s completely dominated by her husband.” “Information is your long suit, Bert. Now, if you only had intelligence to correspond—” Average Jones broke off and grinned mildly, first at his friend, then at the advertisement.