“Isn’t it strange?” she said, holding out a hand in welcome. “Why should any one advertise for my Peter Paul? He isn’t lost.” “I am glad to hear that,” said the caller gravely. “I’ve kept my promise, you see,” pursued the girl. “Can you do as well, and live up to your profession of aid?” “Try me.” “Very well, do you know what that advertisement means?” “Perfectly.” “Then you’re a very extraordinary person.” “Not in the least. I wrote it.” “Wrote it! You? Well—really! Why in the world did _you_ write it?” “Because of an unconquerable longing to see,” Average Jones paused, and his quick glance caught the storm signal in her eyes, “your uncle,” he concluded calmly. For one fleeting instant a dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. It departed. But departing, it swept the storm before it. “What do you want to see uncle about, if it isn’t an impertinent question?” “It is, rather,” returned the young man judicially. “Particularly, as I’m not sure, myself. I may want to quarrel with him.” “You won’t have the slightest difficulty in that,” the girl assured him. She rang the bell, dispatched a servant, and presently judge Ackroyd stalked into the room. As Average Jones was being presented, he took comprehensive note and estimate of the broad-cheeked, thin-lipped face; the square shoulders and corded neck, and the lithe and formidable carriage of the man. Judge “Oily” Ackroyd’s greeting of the guest within his gates did not bear out the sobriquet of his public life. It was curt to the verge of harshness. “What is the market quotation on beetles, judge?” asked the young man, tapping the rug with his stick. “What are you talking about?” demanded the other, drawing down his heavy brows. “The black beetle; the humble but brisk haunter of household crevices,” explained Average Jones. “You advertised for ten thousand specimens. I’ve got a few thousand I’d like to dispose of, if the inducements are sufficient.” “I’m in no mood for joking, young man,” retorted the other, rising. “You seldom are, I understand,” replied Average Jones blandly. “Well, if you won’t talk about bugs, let’s talk about dogs.” “The topic does not interest me, sir,” retorted the other, and the glance of his eye was baleful, but uneasy. The tapping of the young man’s cane ceased. He looked up into his host’s glowering face with a seraphic and innocent smile. “Not even if it—er—touched upon a device for guarding the street corners in case—er—Peter Paul went walking—er—once too often?” Judge Ackroyd took one step forward. Average Jones was on his feet instantly, and, even in her alarm, Sylvia Graham noticed how swiftly and naturally his whole form “set.” But the big man turned away, and abruptly left the room. “Were you wise to anger him?” asked the girl, as the heavy tread died away on the stairs. “Sometimes open declaration of war is the soundest strategy.” “War?” she repeated. “You make me feel like a traitor to my own family.”