Collectors of _lepidoptera_ rose in shoals to the printed offer of luna moths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came in by, every mail, responding variously with fervor, suspicion, yearning eagerness, and bitter skepticism to Average Jones’ advertisement. All of these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And each day he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with the directory of occupants of the Stengel Building. Less than a week after the luna moth advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into Malcolm Dorr’s office with a twinkle in his eye. “Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?” he asked the chemist. “Never heard of him.” “Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the rest of the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater Apartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building. Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he is one of the confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat Company. Do you see?” “I begin,” replied young Mr. Dorr. “It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor above, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting work late at night when the elevator had stopped running and—let us say—peep through the keyhole.” Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean lines of his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh. “I don’t know what _you’re_ going to do to Mr. Ross,” he said, “but I want to see him first.” “I’m not going to do anything to him,” returned Average Jones, “because, in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away, having noted, doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis of the nerves. It’s strange how nervous your scientific murderer is. Anyway, Ross is only an agent. I’m going to aim higher.” “As how?” “Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare a peaceful but murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his senses; second, I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas; and third, I expect to raise the street selling price of the evening ‘yellow’ journals, temporarily, about one thousand per cent. What’s the answer? The answer is ‘Buy to-night’s papers.’”