“If I’ve frightened you, forgive me. I couldn’t help it. It was stronger than I. This isn’t the place where I can tell you. Sylvia, I’m going now.” No answer. “The work is done,” he continued. “You won’t need me any more.” Did he hear, from within, a faint indrawn breath? “Not for any help that I can give. But I—I shall need you always, and long for you. Listen, there mustn’t be any misunderstanding about this, dear. If you send for me, it must be because you want me; knowing that, when I come, I shall come for you. Good-by, dear.” “Good-by.” It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But it echoed in the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears in the whirling brain of Average Jones as he walked back to his offices. Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word nor sign had come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily as Simpson entered the inner sanctum with the usual packet of clippings. “Leave them,” he ordered. “Yes, sir.” The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable. “Anything from yesterday’s lot, sir?” “Haven’t looked them over yet.” “Or day before’s?” “Haven’t taken those up either.” “Pardon me, Mr. Jones., but—are you ill, sir?” “No,” snapped Average Jones. “Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles. I see in the paper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours’ notice, so I suppose you won’t want any more?” Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson’s beetles deeper than they had, ever digged for prey. “Yes, Sir,” assented Simpson. “But if I might suggest, there’s a very interesting advertisement in yesterday’s paper repeated this morn—” “I don’t want to see it.” “No, Sir. But—but still—it—it seems to have a strange reference to the burial of the million-dollar dog, and an invitation that I thought—” “Where is it? Give it to me!” For once in his life, high pressure of excitement had blotted out Average Jones’ drawl. His employee thrust into his hand this announcement from the _Banner_ of that morning: DIED—At 100 West 26th Street, Sept. 14, Peter Paul, a dog, for many years the faithful and fond companion of the late Amelia Van Haltern. Burial in accordance with the wish and will of Mrs. Van Haltern, at the family estate, Schuylkill, Sept. 17, at o’clock. His friend, Don Quixote, is especially bidden to come, if he will. Average Jones leaped to his feet. “My parable,” he cried. “Don Quixote and the damsel in distress. Where’s my hat? Where’s the time-table? Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn’t you make me read this before, confound you! I mean God bless you. Your salary’s doubled from to-day. I’m off.” “Yes, Sir,” said the bewildered Simpson, “but about Ramson’s beetles?” “Tell him, to turn ’em out to pasture and keep ’em as long as they live, at my expense,” called back Average Jones as the door slammed behind him.