Average Jones pushed a chair behind him, while Bertram brought him a glass of water. He gulped out his thanks, and, mastering himself after a moment’s effort, drew a paper from his inner pocket which he placed on the desk. It was a certified check for one hundred dollars, made payable to Jones. “There’s the rest of a thousand ready, if you can help me,” he said. “We’ll talk of that later,” said the prospective beneficiary. “Sit tight until you’re able to answer questions.” “Able now,” piped the other in his shrill voice. “I’m ashamed of myself, gentlemen, but the strain I’ve been under— When you’ve heard my story—” “Just a moment, please,” interrupted Average Jones, “let me get at this my own way.” “Any way you like,” returned the visitor. “Good! Now what is it that points to you?” “I don’t know any more than you.” “What are the ‘some things’ that are worse than death?” Mr. Robinson shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest notion in the world.” “Nor of the ‘short cut’ which you are advised to take?” “I suppose it means suicide.” He paused for a moment. “They can’t drive me to that—unless they drive me crazy first.” He wiped the sweat from under his eyes, breathing hard. “Who are they?” Mr. Robinson shook his head. In the next question the interrogator’s tone altered and became more insistent. “Have you ever called in a doctor, Mr. Robinson?” “Only once in five years. That was when my nerves broke down—under this.” “When you do call in a doctor, is it your habit to conceal your symptoms from him?” “Of course not. I see what you mean. Mr. Jones, I give, you my word of honor, as I hope to be saved from this persecution, I don’t know any more than yourself what it means.” “Then—er—I am—er—to believe,” replied Jones, drawling, as he always did when interest, in his mind, was verging on excitement, “that a simple blind threat like this—er—without any backing from your own conscience—er—could shake you—er—as this has done? Why, Mr. Robinson, the thing—er—may be—er—only a raw practical joke.” “But the others!” cried the visitor. His face changed and fell. “I believe I _am_ going crazy,” he groaned. “I didn’t tell you about the others.” Diving into his overcoat pocket he drew out a packet of letters which he placed on the desk with a sort of dismal flourish. “Read those!” he cried. “Presently.” Average Jones ran rapidly over the eight envelopes. With one exception, each bore the imprint of some firm name made familiar by extensive advertising. All the envelopes were of softish Manila paper varying in grade and hue, under one-cent stamps. “Which is the first of the series?” he asked. “It isn’t among those. Unfortunately it was lost, by a stupid servant’s mistake, pin and all.” “Pin?” “Yes. Where I cut open the envelope—” “Wait a moment. You say you cut it open. All these, being one-cent postage, must have come unsealed. Was the first different?”