“Your orders shall be obeyed,” said the older man, his beady eyes twinkling. “But why, in the name of all that’s unheard of, should collectors come bothering me about luna moths?” “Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in the next number of the _National Science Weekly_, and in coming issues of the New York _Evening Register_.” He handed out a rough draft of this advertisement: “For Sale—Two largest known specimens of _Tropaea luna_, unmounted; respectively 10 and 11½ inches spread. Also various other specimens from collection of late Gerald Moseley, of Conn. Write for particulars. Jones, Room 222 Astor Court Temple, New York.” “What about further danger here?” inquired Mr. Fleming, as Average Jones bade him good-by. “Would we better run that warning of poor Moseley’s, after all?” For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late season whirl of snow enveloped the streets. “I see,” said the old man. “The frost. Well Mr. Mysterious Jones, I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’ve given me an interesting day. Let me know what comes of it.” On the train back to New York, Average Jones Wrote two letters. One was to the Denny Research Laboratories in St. Louis, the other to the Department of Agriculture at Washington. On the following morning he went to Dorr’s office. That young chemist was in a recalcitrant frame of mind. “I’ve done about ten dollars’ worth of fumigating and a hundred dollars’ worth of damage,” he said, “and now, I’d like to have a Missouri sign. In other words, I want to be shown. What did some skunk want to kill my dogs for?” “He didn’t.” “But they’re dead, aren’t they?” “Accident.” “What kind of an accident?” “The kind in which the innocent bystander gets the worst of it. You’re the one it was meant for.” “Me?” “Certainly. You’d probably have got it if the dog hadn’t.” The speaker examined the keyhole, then walked over to the radiator and looked over, under and through it minutely. “Nothing there,” he observed; and, after extending his examination to the windows, book-shelf and desk, added: “I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safest side is the best.” “What is it? Some new game in projective germs?” demanded the chemist. “Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs,” returned Average Jones. “Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I’ll have some mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a plumber solder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of dynamite can get through it.”