Now, Average Jones’s birth-fairy had endowed him with one priceless gift: the power of inspiring an instinctive confidence in himself. Sylvia Graham felt, suddenly, that a hand, sure and firm, had been outstretched to guide her on a dark path. In one of those rare flashes of companionship which come only when clean and honorable spirits recognize one another, all consciousness of sex was lost between them. The girl’s gaze met the man’s level, and was held in a long, silent regard. “Yes,” she said simply; and the heart of Average Jones rose and swore a high loyalty. “Listen, then. I think I see a clear way. Judge Ackroyd will kill the dog if he can, and so effectually conceal the body that no funeral can be held over it, thereby rendering your grandmother’s bequest to you void. He has only a few days to do it in, but I don’t think that all your watchfulness can restrain him. Now, on the other hand, if the dog should die a natural death and be buried, he can still contest the will. But if he should kill Peter Paul and hide the body where we could discover it, the game would be up for him, as he then wouldn’t even dare to come into court with a contest. Do you follow me?” “Yes. But you wouldn’t ask me to be a party to any such thing.” “You’re a party, involuntarily, by remaining here. But do your best to save Peter Paul, if you will. And please call me up immediately at the Cosmic Club, if anything in my line turns up.” “What is your line?” asked Miss Graham, the smile returning to her lips. “Creepy, crawly bugs? Or imperiled dogs? Or rescuing prospectively distressed damsels?” “Technically it’s advertising,” replied Average Jones, who had been formulating a shrewd little plan of his own. “Let me recommend to you the advertising columns of the daily press. They’re often amusing. Moreover your uncle might break out in print again. Who knows?” “Who, indeed? I’ll read religiously.” “And, by the way, my beetles. I forgot and left them here. Oh, there’s the box. I may have a very specific use for them later. Au revoir—and may it be soon!” The two days succeeding seemed to Average Jones, haunted as he was by an importunate craving to look again into Miss Graham’s limpid and changeful eyes, a dull and sodden period of probation. The messenger boy who finally brought her expected note, looked to him like a Greek godling. The note enclosed this clipping: LOST—Pug dog answering to the name of Peter Paul. Very old and asthmatic. Last seen on West 16th Street. Liberal reward for information to Anxious. Care of Banner office. _Dear Mr. Jones_ (she had written): _Are you a prophet?_ (Average Jones chuckled, at this point.) _The enclosed seems to be distinctly in our line. Could you come some time this afternoon? I’m puzzled and a little anxious._ _Sincerely yours, Sylvia Graham._ Average Jones could, and did. He found Miss Graham’s piquant face under the stress of excitement, distinctly more alluring than before.