WANTED—Instructor in Spanish. One with recent Experience preferred. Apply between 9 and 10 A.M. Doctor Hoff, 360 Fairfield Avenue. Thence he climbed the stairs to the den of the city editor, to whom he stated his errand openly, being too wise in his day and generation to attempt concealment or evasion with a newspaper man from whom he wanted information. The city editor obligingly furnished further details regarding “Rickey” Hoff, as he called the young man, which, while differing in important respects from Doctor Hoff’s, bore the ear-marks of superior accuracy. “The worst of it is,” said the newspaper man, “that there are elements of decency about the young cub, if he’d keep sober. He won’t go into the old boy’s business, because he hates it. Says it’s all rot and lies. He’s dead right, of course. But there’s nothing else for him to do, so he just fights booze. Better make a few inquiries at Silent Charley’s.” “What’s that?” “Quiet little bar kept by a talkative Swede. ‘Rickey’ Hoff hung out there a lot. Charley even had a room fixed up for him to lay off in when he was too pickled to go home.” “Would—er—young Hoff—er—perhaps keep a few—er—extra clothes there?” asked Average Jones, seemingly struggling with a yawn. The city editor stared. “Oh, I dare say. He used to end his sprees pretty much mussed up.” “That would perhaps explain where the shirt came from,” murmured the Ad-Visor. “Much obliged for the suggestion. I’ll just step around.” “Silent Charley” he found ready, even eager to talk. Yes; “Rickey” Hoff had been in his place right along. Drunk? No; not even drinking much lately. Two other gentlemen had met him there quite often. They sat in the back room and talked. No, neither of them was Spanish. One was big and clean-shaven and wore a silk hat. They called him “Colonel.” A swell dresser. The other man drank gin, and a lot of it. His name was Fred. He was very tanned. One day there had been a hot discussion over a sheet of paper that lay on the table in front of the three men in the back room. “Rickey” had called a messenger boy and sent him out for a geography. “I told you there wasn’t any such thing there,” the saloon-keeper heard him say triumphantly, when the geography arrived. Then Fred replied: “To h-ll with you and your schoolbook! I tell you I’ve waded across it.” The colonel smoothed things over and it ended in a magnum of champagne being ordered. “For which the colonel paid?” asked Average Jones. “Why, yes, he did,” assented the saloon man. “He said, ‘Well, it’s a go, then. Here’s luck to us!’ He was a good spender, the colonel.” “And you haven’t seen any of them since, I suppose?” “Nary a one.” On his return to the Hoff mansion the investigator found the head thereof in a state of great excitement. “Say, I’ve found out something,” he cried. “Roddy’s gone to Yurrup.” “Where did you find that out?” asked Average Jones with a smile.