The evening’s thinking formulated itself into a telegram to Average Jones’ club, the Cosmic. It was one among the many distinctions of the modest little club in Gramercy Park, that its membership pretty well comprised the range of available information on any topic. Under the “favored applications clause,” a person whose knowledge of any particular subject was unique and authoritative, whether the topic were Esperanto or fistiana, went to the head of the waiting—list automatically and had his initiation fee remitted. Hence, Average Jones was confident of a helpful reply to his message of inquiry, which summed up his conclusions and surmises thus far: “COSMIC CLUB, NEW YORK CITY: Refer following to geographical expert: Where is large, shallow, unmapped body of salt water in United States, or near border, surrounded by hot, snake-infested desert and mountainous country, reputed to contain gold? Spanish associations indicated. Wire details and name of best guide, if obtainable. A. JONES.” The reply was disappointing: “Cyrus C. Allen absent from town. Will forward your wire. “COSMIC CLUB.” Well poised as Average Jones normally was, he chafed over the ensuing delay of four days, each of which gave the colonel’s expedition just so much start upon its unknown course. The only relief was a call from the Spanish instructor who answered Jones’ advertisement. He was the same who had served young Hoff. As the Ad-Visor surmised, his former employment had been merely the translation of a letter. The letter was in base Spanish, he said. He didn’t remember much of it, but there was something about a lost gold mine. Yes; there was reference to a map. No; no geographical names were mentioned, but in several places the capital letters B. C. seemed to indicate a locality. He hadn’t noted the date or the signature. That was all he could tell. Doctor Hoff, who had been ramping with impatience over the man’s lack of definite memory, now rushed to the atlas and began to study the maps. “You needn’t trouble,” said Average Jones coolly. “You won’t find it there.” “I’ll find that B. C. if I have to go over every map in the geography.” “Then you’ll have to get a Spanish edition. For a guess, B. C. is Baja California, the Mexican peninsula of California.” Jones sent a supplementary wire to this effect to Cyrus C. Allen, of the Cosmic Club, and within a few hours received a reply from that eminent cartographer, who had been located in a remote part of Connecticut: “Probably Laguna Salada, not on map. Seventy miles long; four to eight wide. Between Cocopah and Sierra Gigantica ranges. Country very wild and arid. Can be reached by water from Yuma, or pack train from Calexico. White, who has hunted there, says Captain Funcke, Calexico, best guide. “ALLEN.” Average Jones tossed this over to the father.