Bertram caught up the paper and studied it. “Well, what does it mean?” he demanded. “It means that Ackroyd, being about to give up his rented house, intends to saddle it with a bad name. Probably he’s had a row with the agent or owner, and is getting even by making the place difficult to rent again. Nobody wants to take a house with the reputation of an entomological resort.” “It would be just like Oily Ackroyd,” remarked Bertram. “He’s a vindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poor devil of a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed to keep it out of the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine.” “That might be worth looking up, too,” ruminated Average Jones thoughtfully. He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. “All right, come, in, Simpson,” he said. The confidential clerk appeared. “Ramson says that regular black beetles are out of season, sir,” he reported. “But he can send to the country and dig up plenty of red-and-black ones.” “That will do,” returned the Ad-Visor. “Tell him to have two or three hundred here to-morrow morning.” Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. “Meaning that you’re going to follow up this freak affair?” he inquired. “Just that. I can’t explain why, but—well, Bert, I’ve a hunch. At the worst, Ackroyd’s face when he sees the beetles should be worth the money.” “When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you, look out for Ackroyd. He’s as big as he is ugly; a tough customer.” “All right. I’ll just put on some old clothes, to dress the part of a beetle-purveyor correctly, and also in case I get ’em torn in my meeting with judge ‘Oily.’ I’ll see you later—and report, if I survive his wrath.” Thus it was that, on the morning after this dialogue, a clean-built young fellow walked along West Sixteenth Street, appreciatively sniffing the sunny crispness of the May air. He was rather shabby looking, yet his demeanor was by no means shabby. It was confident and easy. On the evidence of the bandbox which he carried, his mission should have been menial; but he bore himself wholly unlike one subdued to petty employments. His steady, gray eyes showed a glint of anticipation as he turned in at the gate of the high, broad, brown house standing back, aloof and indignant, from the roaring encroachments of trade. He set his burden down and, pulled the bell. The door opened promptly to the deep, far-away clangor. A flashing impression of girlish freshness, vigor, and grace was disclosed to the caller against a background of interior gloom. He stared a little more patently than was polite. Whatever his expectation of amusement, this, evidently, was not the manifestation looked for. The girl glanced not at him, but at the box, and spoke a trifle impatiently. “If it’s my hat, it’s very late. You should have gone to the basement.”