“Good boy!” approved the old martinet. “Sticks to his point. Dog was out walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant lot on next square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber. Dog nosed around. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm. Died in fifteen minutes. And hang me, sir,” cried the old man, bringing his fist down on Average Jones’ knee, “if I see how the poison got him, for he was muzzled to the snout, sir!” “Muzzled? Then—er—why do, you—er—suggest poison?” drawled the young man. “Fourth dog to go the same way in the last week.” “All in this locality?” “Yes, all on Golden Hill.” “Any suspicions?” “Suspicions? Certainly, young man, certainly. Look at this.” Average Jones took the smutted newspaper proof which his host extended, and read: “WARNING—Residents of the Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestly cautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles or outbuildings until further notice. Danger!” “When was this published?” “Wasn’t published. _Delineator_ refused it. Thought it was a case of insanity.” “Who offered it?” “Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next corner with old-fashioned conservatory.” “How long ago?” “About a week.” “All the dogs you speak of died since then?” “Yes.” “Did he give any explanation of the advertisement?” “No. Acted half-crazy when he brought it to the office, the business manager said. Wouldn’t sign his name to the thing. Wouldn’t say anything about it. Begged the manager to let him have the weather reports in advance, every day. The manager put the advertisement in type, decided not to it, and returned the money.” “Weather reports, eh?” Average Jones mused a moment. “How long was the ad to run?” “Until the first hard frost.” “Has there—er—been a—er—frost since?” drawled Average Jones. “No.” “Who is this Moseley?” “Don’t know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, I believe. Very exclusive,” added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin. “Never sociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though. Insane, too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in them.” “How’s that?” inquired Average Jones. The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “It got enclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The handwriting on the envelope is his own. Look inside.” A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in New York on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was a small slip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubber stamp. There was no writing of any kind. Near the center of the sheet were three dots. They seemed to have been made with red ink. “You’re sure the address is in Professor Moseley’s writing?” “I’d swear to it.” “It doesn’t follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I should judge that it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not to have any specimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.