“It was simple enough as soon as I saw the catchword in the ‘Wanted’ line.” “Anything is easy to a man who sees,” returned the older man sententiously. “The open eye of the open mind—that has more to do with real detective work than all the deduction and induction and analysis ever devised.” “It is the detective part that interests me most in the game, but I haven’t had much of it, yet. You haven’t run across any promising ads lately, have you?” Waldemar’s wide, florid brow wrinkled. “I haven’t thought or dreamed of anything for a month but this infernal bomb explosion.” “Oh, the Linder case. You’re personally interested?” “Politically. It makes Linder’s nomination certain. Persecution. Attempted assassination. He becomes a near-martyr. I’m almost ready to believe that he planted a fake bomb himself.” “And fell out of a third-story window to carry out the idea? That’s pushing realism rather far, isn’t it?” Waldemar laughed. “There’s the weakness. Unless we suppose that he under-reckoned the charge of explosive.” “They let the musician go, didn’t they?” “Yes. There was absolutely no proof against him, except that he was in the street below. Besides, he seemed quite lacking mentally.” “Mightn’t that have been a sham?” “Alienists, of good standing examined him. They reported him just a shade better than half-witted. He was like a one-ideaed child, his whole being comprised in his ability, and ambition to play his B-flat trombone.” “Well, if I needed an accomplice,” said Average Jones thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t want any better one than a half-witted man. Did he play well?” “Atrociously. And if you know what a soul-shattering blare exudes from a B-flat trombone—” Mr. Waldemar lifted expressive hands. Within Average Jones’ overstocked mind something stirred at the repetition of the words “B-flat trombone.” Somewhere they had attracted his notice in print; and somehow they were connected with Waldemar. Then from amidst the hundreds of advertisements with which, in the past weeks, he had crowded his brain, one stood out clear. It voiced the desire of an unknown gentleman on the near border of Harlem for the services of a performer upon that semi-exotic instrument. One among several, it had been cut from the columns of the _Universal_, on the evening which had launched him upon his new enterprise. Average Jones made two steps to a bookcase, took down a huge scrap-book from an alphabetized row, and turned the leaves rapidly. “Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street,” said he, slamming the book shut again. “Three Hundred East One Hundredth. You won’t mind, will you,” he said to Waldemar, “if I leave you unceremoniously?” “Recalled a forgotten engagement?” asked the other, rising. “Yes. No. I mean I’m going to Harlem to hear some music. Thirty-fourth’s the nearest station, isn’t it? Thanks. So long.” Waldemar rubbed his head thoughtfully as the door slammed behind the speeding Ad-Visor.