“Yes. It had a two-cent stamp. It was a circular announcement of the Swift-Reading Encyclopedia, in a sealed envelope. There was a pin bent over the fold of the letter so you couldn’t help but notice it. Its head was stuck through the blank part of the circular. Leading from it were three very small pins arranged as a pointer to the message.” “Do you remember the message?” “Could I forget it! It was pricked out quite small on the blank fold of the paper. It said: ‘Make the most of your freedom. Your time is short. Call at General Delivery, Main P. O., for your warning.’ I—” “You went there?” “The next day.” “And found—?” “An ordinary sealed envelope, addressed in pinpricks connected by pencil lines. The address was scrawly, but quite plain.” “Well, what did it contain?” “A commitment blank to an insane asylum.” Average Jones absently drew out his handkerchief, elaborately whisked from his coat sleeve an imaginary speck of dust, and smiled benignantly where the dust was supposed to have been. “Insane asylum,” he murmured. “Was—er—the blank—er—filled in?” “Only partly. My name was pricked in, and there was a specification of dementia from drug habit, with suicidal tendencies.” With a quick signal, unseen by the visitor, Average Jones opened the way to Bertram, who, in wide range of experience and study had once specialized upon abnormal mental phenomena. “Pardon me,” that gentleman put in gently, “has there ever been any dementia in your family?” “Not as far as I know.” “Or suicidal mania?” “All my people have died respectably in their beds,” declared the visitor with some vehemence. “Once more, if I may venture. Have you ever been addicted to any drug?” “Never, sir.” “Now,” Average Jones took up the examination, “will you tell me of any enemy who would have reason to persecute you?” “I haven’t an enemy in the world.” “You’re fortunate,” returned the other smiling, “but surely, some time in your career—business rivalry—family alienation—any one of a thousand causes?” “No,” answered the harassed man. “Not for me. My business runs smoothly. My relations are mostly dead. I have no friends and no enemies. My wife and I live alone, and all we ask,” he added in a sudden outburst of almost childish resentment, “is to be left alone.” The inquisitor’s gaze returned to the packet of letters. “You haven’t complained to the post-office authorities?” “And risk the publicity?” returned Robinson with a shudder. “Well, give me over night with these. Oh, and I may want to ’phone you presently. You’ll be at home? Thank you. Good day.” “Now,” said Average Jones to Bertram, as their caller’s plump back disappeared, “this looks pretty, queer to me. What did you think of our friend?” “Scared but straight,” was Bertram’s verdict. “Glad to hear it. That’s my idea, too. Let’s have a look at the material. We’ve already got the opening threat, and the General Delivery follow-up.”