“Yes. We met by accident at a little before two P.M. on Twenty-third Street. I was surprised, because he had told me he had to catch a noon train and return to his work.” “Then he hadn’t done so?” “Yes. He explained that he had, but that he had been sent back to buy some supplies.” “You believe he was telling the truth?” “In an extensive experience with young men I have never known a more truthful one than he.” “Between the first day of his coming back to New York and the last, had you seen him?” “I had talked with him over the telephone. He called up two or three times to say that he was well and working hard and that he hoped to be back in a few weeks.” “Where did he call up from?” “As he did not volunteer the information, I am unable to say.” “Unfortunate again. Well, I think you may drop the notion of suicide. If anything of importance occurs, please notify me at once. Otherwise, I’ll send you word when I have made progress.” Having dismissed the anxious pundit, Average Jones, so immersed in thought as to be oblivious to outer things, made his way to the Cosmic Club in a series of caroms from indignant pedestrian to indignant pedestrian. There, as he had foreseen, he found Robert Bertram. “Can I detach you from your usual bridge game this evening?” he demanded of that languid gentleman. “Very possibly. What’s the inducement?” “Chapter Second of the Bellair Street advertisement. I’ve told you the first chapter. You’ve been the god-outside-the-machine so far. Now, come on in.” Together they went to the Greenwich Village house. The name “Smith” had disappeared from the vestibule. “As I expected,” said Jones. “Our hope be in the landlord!” The landlord turned out to be a German landlady, who knew little concerning her late ground-floor tenant and evinced no interest in the subject. The “perfessor,” as she termed “Smith,” had taken the flat by the month, was prompt in payment, quiet in habit, given to long and frequent absences; had been there hardly at all in the last few weeks. Where had he moved to? Hummel only knew! He had left no address. Where did his furniture go? Nowhere; he’d left it behind. Was any one in the house acquainted with him? Mrs. Marron in the other ground-floor flat had tried to be. Not much luck, she thought. Mrs. Marron was voluble, ignorant, and a willing source of information. “The perfessor? Sure! I knew’m. ’Twas me give’m the name. He was a Mejum. Naw! Not for money. Too swell for that. But a real-thing Mejum. A big one; one of the kind it comes to, nacheral. Spirit-rappin’s! Somethin’ fierce! My kitchen window is on the air-shaft. So’s his. Many’s the time in the still evenin’s I’ve heard the rap-rap-rappin’ on his window an’ on the wall, but mostly on the window. Blip! out of the dark. It’d make you just hop! And him sittin’ quiet and peaceful in the front room all the time. Yep; my little girl seen him there while I was hearin’ the raps.” “Did you ask him about them?” inquired Jones.