Left to himself, Average Jones again ran over the dispatches, conveying the information as to the lost Toledo youth. They had given a fairly complete sketch of young Hoff’s life and character. At twenty-four, it appeared, Roderick Hoff had achieved a career. Emerging, by the propulsive method, from college, in the first term of his freshman year, he had taken a post-graduate course in the cigarette ward of a polite retreat for nervous wrecks. He had subsequently endured two breach-of-promise suits, had broken the state automobile record for number of speed violation arrests, had been buncoed, badgered, paneled, blackmailed and short-carded out of sums varying between one hundred and ten thousand dollars; and now, in the year of grace, 19—, was the horror of the pulpit and the delight of the press of the city which he called his home. For the rest, he was a large, mild, good-humored, pulpy individual, with a fixed delusion that the human organism can absorb a quart of alcoholic miscellany per day and be none the worse for it. The major premise of his proposition was perfectly correct. He proved it daily. The minor premise was an error. Bets were even in the Toledo clubs as to whether delirium tremens or paresis would win the event around young Mr. Hoff’s kite-shaped race-track of a brain. With his tastes the income of twenty-five thousand dollars per annum which his father allowed him from the profits of “Dr. Hoff’s Catarrh-Killer,” proved sadly insufficient to his needs. He mentioned this fact to his father, so Average Jones’ information ran, early in April, and suggested an increase, only to be refused with some acerbity. “Oh, very well,” said he, “I’ll go and make it myself.” The amazement inspired in Doctor Hoff’s mind by this pronouncement was augmented in the next few days by the fact that Roderick was very busy about town in his motor-car, and was changed to vivid alarm immediately thereafter by the young man’s disappearance. To all intents and appearances, Roderick Hoff had dropped off the earth on or about April twelfth. By April fifteenth New York, Pittsburg, Chicago, Washington and other clearing-houses for the distribution of the unspent increment were apprised of the elder Hoff’s five thousand-dollar anxiety through the medium of the daily press. This advertisement it was, upon the practical merits of which Average Jones and his confidential clerk had differed. “If there were any chance of sport in it,” mused Average Jones, “I’d go in. But to follow the trail of a spurious young sport from bar-room to brothel and from brothel to gambling hell—” He shook his head. “Not good enough,” he repeated. Simpson’s face appeared at the door. His blond forehead was wrinkled with excitement. “Doctor Hoff is here, Mr. Jones. I told him you couldn’t see him, but he wouldn’t take no. Says he was recommended to you by a former client.”