Following the word, there burst into Average Jones’ private sanctum a gross old man, silk-hatted and bediamonded, whose side-whiskers bristled whitely with perturbed self-importance. In his hand was a patchy bundle. “They tried to stop me!” he sputtered. “Me! I’m worth ten million dollars, an’ a ten-dollar-a-week office toad tries to hold me up when I come here myself person’ly, from Toledo to see you.” Analysis of advertising in all its forms had inspired Average Jones with a profound contempt and dislike for the cruelest of all forms of swindling medical quackery. And this swollen, smug-faced intruder looked a particularly offensive specimen of his kind. Therefore the Ad-Visor said curtly: “I can’t take your case. Good day—” “Not take it! Did you read the reward?” “Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker’s touching confidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise it doesn’t, interest me. Get some one else to find your young hopeful.” “It ain’t no case of findin’ now. The boy’s dead.” His strident voice quavered and broke, but rose again to a snarl. “And, by God, I’ll spend a million to get the dogs that murdered him.” At the word “murdered” Average Jones’ clean cut, agreeable, but rather stolidly neutral face underwent a subtle transformation. Another personality looked out from the deep-set, somnolent, gray eyes; a personality resolute, forceful and quietly alert. It was apparently belied by the hesitant drawl, which, as all who had ever seen the Ad-Visor at his chosen pursuits well knew, signified awakened or intensified interest in the matter in hand. “Where—er—is—the—er—body” “I don’t know. It ain’t been found.” “Then how do you know he’s dead?” The other tore open the bundle he carried, and spread before Average Jones a white stained shirt with ominous brown splotches. “It’s his shirt. There’s the initials. Mailed to my house and got there just after I left. My secretary brought it on, with the note that come pinned to it. Here it is.” He produced a bit of coarse wrapping-paper upon which was this message in rough capital letters: TWO DAGOES SHOT HIM DASSENT SAY NO MORE FROM A FRIEND IN CINCINNATI. Average Jones examined the wrapper. It was postmarked Cincinnati. He next smoothed out the creased silk and studied minutely the blotches, which were heaviest about the left breast and shoulder. To the surprise of Doctor Hoff, the young man’s glance roved the big desk before him, settling with satisfaction upon a sponge-cup for moistening stamps. Applying this to one of the spots on the shirt, he rubbed the wetted portion vigorously on a sheet of paper which lay near at hand. His lips pursed. He whistled very softly and meditatively. He scratched his chin with a slow movement. “Is that all?” he shot out suddenly at the older man. “All! Ain’t it enough? He’s been murdered; murdered, I tell you, an’ you set there an’ whistle!” Average Jones directed a dreamy smile toward a far comer of the room.