“Perhaps. What’s your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious young friend?” “Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours.” “Well, I’ve got _my_ man. He confessed.” “Confessed?” echoed Average Jones. “Practically. I’ve kept the point of the story to the last. Professor Moseley committed suicide this morning.” If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on his visitor, his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet slowly, walked over to the window, returned, picked up the strange proof with its message of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the window, and stared out into the day. “Cut his throat about nine o’clock this morning,” pursued the other. “Dead when they found him.” “Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?” said Average Jones curtly. “Told to hold my tongue in my own house by uninvited stripling,” cackled the other. “You’ re a singular young man. Have it your own way.” After a five minutes’ silence the visitor turned from the window and spoke. “There has been a deadly danger loose about here for which Professor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself. Why?” “Because I was on his trail,” declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Afraid to face me.” “Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this thing, whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley to suicide.” “Prove it.” “Give me a morning paper.” His host handed him the current issue of the _Delineator_. Average Jones studied the local page. “Where’s Galvin’s Alley?” he asked presently. “Two short blocks from here.” “In the Golden Hill section?” “Yes.” “Read that.” Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to a paragraph telling of the death of an Italian child living in Galvin’s Alley. Cause, convulsions. “By Jove!” said he, somewhat awed. “You can reason, young man.” “I’ve got to, reason a lot further, if I’m to get anywhere in this affair,” said Average Jones with conviction. “Do you care, to come to Galvin’s Alley with me?” Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by white crêpe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English. They said that four-year-old Pietro had been playing around a woodpile the afternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home, staggering. The doctor could do nothing. The little one passed from spasm into spasm, and died in an hour. “Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?” asked Average Jones. The dead child’s father looked surprised. That, he said, was what the strange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer, bent little gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who was kind, and wept with them and gave them money to bury the “bambino.” “Moseley, by the Lord Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. “But what was the death-agent?” Average Jones shook his head. “Too early to do more than guess. Will you take me to Professor Moseley’s place?”