He cast an eye around the uniquely decorated walls, upon which hung, here, the shrieking prospectus of a mythical gold-mine; there a small but venomous political placard, and on all sides examples of the uncouth or unusual in paid print; exploitations of grotesque quackeries; appeals, business-like, absurd, or even passionate, in the form of “Wants;” threats thinly disguised as “Personals;” dim suggestions of crime, of fraud, of hope, of tragedy, of mania, all decorated with the stars of “paid matter” or designated by the _Adv_. sign, and each representing some case brought to A. Jones, Ad-Visor—to quote his hybrid and expressive doorplate—by some one of his numerous and incongruous clients. “Something different?” repeated the visitor, reverting to Average Jones’ last observation. “Well, yes; I think so. Where is Bellair Street?” “Ask a directory. How should I know?” retorted the other lazily. “Sounds like old Greenwich Village.” Bertram reached over with a cane of some pale, translucent green wood, selected to match his pale green tie and the marvelous green opal which held it in place, and prodded his friend severely in the ribs. “Double-up Lucy; the sun is in the sky!” he proclaimed with unwonted energy. “Listen. I cut this out of yesterday’s _Evening Register_. With my own fair hands I did it, to rouse you from your shameless sloth. With your kind attention, ladies and gentlemen—” He read: “WANTED—A young man, unattached, competent to act as assistant in outdoor scientific work. Manual skill as desirable as experience. Emolument for one month’s work generous. Man without family insisted upon. Apply after 8:30 P. M. in proper person. Smith, 74 Bellair Street.” Slowly whirling in his chair, Average Jones held out a hand, received the clipping, read it through with attention, laid it on the desk, and yawned. “Is that all?” said the indignant Bertram. “Do you notice that ‘unattached’ in the opening sentence? And the specification that the applicant must be without family? Doesn’t that inspire any notion above a yawn in your palsied processes of mind?” “It does; several notions. I yawned,” explained Average Jones with dignity, “because I perceive with pain that I shall have to go to work. What do you make of the thing, yourself?” “Well, this man Smith—” “What man Smith?” “Smith, of 74 Bellair Street, who signs the ad.” Average Jones laughed, “There isn’t any Smith,” he said. “What do you know about it?” demanded Bertram, sitting up. “Only what the advertisement tells me. It was written by a foreigner; that’s too obvious for argument. ‘Emolument generous.’ ‘Apply in proper person.’ Did a Smith ever write that? No. A Borgrevsky might have, or a Greiffenhauser, or even a Mavronovoupoulos. But never Smith.” “Well, it’s nothing to me what his name is. Only I thought you might be the aspiring young scientist he was yearning for.”