“And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in the advertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more to scare off further attempts than anything else,” put in Dorr. “What became of the spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?” “Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. The others may well have died of cold. At night when the heat was off and the windows open. The cleaning woman wouldn’t have been likely to notice them when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later, if Ross had continued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one of them would have bitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust would have gone on its way rejoicing.” “Well, you’ve certainly saved my life,” declared Dorr, “and it’s a case of sheer force of reasoning.” Average Jones shook his head. “You might give some of the credit to Providence,” he said. “Just one little event would have meant the saving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the death of yourself, instead of the other way around.” “And that event?” asked Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport,” replied Average Jones. CHAPTER III. OPEN TRAIL “Not good enough,” said Average Jones, laying aside a sheet of paper upon which was pasted a newspaper clipping. “We can’t afford luxuries, Simpson.” The confidential clerk rubbed his high, pale forehead indeterminately. “But five thousand dollars, Mr. Jones,” he protested. “Would pay a year’s office rent, you’re thinking. True. Nevertheless I can’t see the missing Mr. Hoff as a sound professional proposition.” “So you think it would be impossible to find him?” “Now, why should I think any such absurd thing? I think, if you choose, that he wouldn’t be worth the amount, when found, to lose.” “The ad says different, Sir.” Simpson raised the paper and read: “FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS—The aforesaid sum will be paid without question to anyone furnishing information which leads to the discovery of Roderick Hoff, twenty-four years old, who left his home in Toledo, O., on April 12. Communicate with Dr. Conrad Hoff, Toledo. “Surely Doctor Hoff is good for the amount.” “Oh, he’s good for millions, thanks to his much advertised quack ‘Catarrh-Killer.’ The point is, from what I can discover, Mr. Roderick Hoff isn’t worth retrieving at any price above one dime.” “Was the information about him that you wished, in the telegram?” asked the confidential clerk. “Yes; all I wanted. Thanks for looking after it. Have the Toledo reporter, who sent it, forward his bill. And if the old inventor who’s been haunted by disembodied voices comes again, bring him to me.” “Yes, sir,” said Simpson, going out.