All that night, and recurrently on many nights thereafter, the poisoned and contorted face and the scrawled “MERCY” on the cabinet lurked troublously in his mind. Nor did Bertram cease to scoff him for his maladroitness until both of them temporarily forgot the strange “Smith” and his advertisement in the entrancement of a chase which led them for a time far back through the centuries to a climax that might well have cost Average Jones his life. They had returned from Baltimore and the society of the Man who spoke Latin a few days when Bertram, at the club, called up Average Jones’ office. “I’m sending Professor Paul Gehren to you,” was his message. “He’ll call to-day or to-morrow.” Average Jones knew Professor Gehren by sight, knew of him further by repute as an impulsive, violent, warm-hearted and learned pundit who, for a typically meager recompense, furnished sundry classes of young gentlemen with amusement, alarm and instruction, in about equal parts, through the medium of lectures at the Metropolitan University. During vacations the professor pursued, with some degree of passion, experiments which added luster and selected portions of the alphabet to his name. Twice a week he walked down-town to the Cosmic Club, where he was wont to dine and express destructive and anarchistic views upon the nature, conduct, motives and personality of the organization’s governing committees. On the day following Bertram’s telephone, Professor Gehren entered Astor Court Temple, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and, following directions, found himself scanning a ground-glass window flaunting the capitalized and gilded legend, A. JONES, AD-VISOR “Ad-Visor,” commented the professor, rancorously. “A vicious verbal monstrosity!” He read on: ADVICE UPON ADVERTISING IN ALL FORMS _Consultation Free. Step In_ “Consultation free!” repeated the educator with virulence. “A trap! A manifest pitfall! I don’t know why Mr. Bertram should have sent me hither. The enterprise is patently quack,” he asseverated in a rising voice. Upon the word a young man opened the door and, emerging, received the accusation full in the face. The young man smiled. “Quack, I said,” repeated the exasperated mentor, “and I repeat it. Quack!” “If you’re suffering from the delusion that you’re a duck,” observed the young man mildly, “you’ll find a taxidermist on the top floor.” The caller turned purple. “If you are Mr. Jones, of the Cosmic Club—” “I am.” “—there are certain things which Mr. Bertram must explain.” “Yes; Bertram said that you were coming, but I’d almost given you up. Come in.” “Into a—a den where free advice is offered? Of all the patent and infernal rascalities, sir, the offer of free advice—” “There, there,” soothed the younger man. “I know all about the free swindles. This isn’t one of them. It’s just a fad of mine.”