“Then Ross was sneaking down here at night and putting the spiders which he had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in the hope that sooner or later one of them would get me,” said Dorr. “A very reasonable expectation, too. _Vide_, the dogs,” returned Average Jones. “And now,” said Mr. Curtis Fleming, “will some one kindly explain to me what this Ross fiend had against our friend, Mr. Dorr?” “Nothing,” replied Average Jones. “Nothing? Was he coursing with spiders merely for sport?” “Oh, no. You see Mr. Dorr was interfering with the machinery of one of our ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust. He possessed information which would have indicted all the officials. Therefore it was desirable—even essential—that he should be removed from the pathway of progress.” “Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!” snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Trusts may be unprincipled, but they don’t commit individual crimes.” “Don’t they?” returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his own boot-tip. “Did you ever hear of Mr. Adel Meyer’s little corset steel which he invented to stick in the customs scales and rob the government for the profit of his Syrup Trust? Or of the individual oil refineries which mysteriously disappeared in fire and smoke at a time when they became annoying to the Combination Oil Trust? Or of the Traction Trust’s two plots to murder Prosecutor Henry in San Francisco? I’m just mentioning a few cases from memory. Why, when a criminal trust faces only loss it will commit forgery, theft or arson. When it faces jail, it will commit murder just as determinedly. Self-defense, you know. As for the case of Mr. Dorr—” and he proceeded to detail the various attempts on the young chemist’s life. “But why so roundabout a method?” asked Dorr skeptically. “Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you through agents. That didn’t work. It was up to the Trust to put one of its own confidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He devised a means that looked to be pretty safe and, in the long run, sure.” “And would have been but for your skill, young Jones,” declared Mr. Curtis Fleming, with emphasis. “Don’t forget the fortunate coincidences,” replied Average Jones modestly. “They’re about half of it. In fact, detective work, for all that is said on the other side, is mostly the ability to recognize and connect coincidences. The coincidence of the escape of the Red Dots from Professor Moseley’s breeding cages; the coincidence of the death of the dogs on Golden Hill, followed by the death of the child; the coincidence of poor Moseley’s having left the red dot letters on the desk instead of destroying them; the coincidence of Dorr’s dogs being bitten, when it might easily have been himself had he gone to turn on the radiator and disturbed the savage little spider—”