“There’s the insane asylum always to fall back on. Under date of October first, comes the Latherton Soap Company’s impassioned appeal to self-shaving manhood. Great Cæsar! No wonder poor Robinson was upset. Listen to this: ‘God himself hates you.’ After that there’s a three-weeks respite, for there’s October twenty-second on this one, Kirkby and Dunn’s offering of five percent water bonds. ‘The commission has its spies watching you constantly.’ Calculated to inspire confidence in the most timid soul! Now we come to the soup course: Smith and Perkins’ Potted Chowder. Date of November third. Er—Bert—here’s something—er—really worth while, now. Hark to the song of the pin.” He read sonorously: “Animula, vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesque corporis; Quae nunc abibis in loca?” “Hadrian, isn’t it?” cried Bertram, in utter amazement. “Of course it is! Hadrian’s terrified invocation to his own parting spirit. ‘Guest and companion of my body; into what places will you now go?’ Average, it’s uncanny! Into what place of darkness and dread is the Demon of the Pin trying to drive poor Robinson’s spirit?” Average Jones shook his head. “‘_Pallidula, nudula, rigida_,’” he completed the quatrain. “‘Ghostpale, stark, and rigid.’ He’s got a grisly imagination, that pin-operator. I shouldn’t care to have him on my trail.” “But Robinson!” protested Bertram feebly. “What has a plump, commonplace, twentieth-century, cutaway-wearing, flat-inhabiting Robinson to do with a Roman emperor’s soul-questionings?” “Perhaps the last entry of the lot will tell us. _Palmerton’s Magazine’s_ feature announcement, received November ninth. No; it doesn’t give any clue to the Latinity. It isn’t bad, though. ‘The darkness falls.’ That’s all there is to it. And enough.” “I should say the darkness did fall,” confirmed Bertram. “It falls—and remains.” Average Jones pushed the collection of advertisements aside and returned to the opening phase of the problem, the fish-bait circular which Robinson had mailed him. So long after, that Bertram hardly recognized it as a response to his last remark, the investigator drawled out: “Not such—er—impenetrable darkness. In fact,—er—Eureka, or words to that effect. Bert, when does the bass season end?” “November first, hereabouts, I believe.” “The postmark on the envelope that carried this advertisement to our friend advises the use of the baits for ‘these next two months.’ Queer time to be using bass-lures, after the season is closed. Bert, it’s a pity I can’t waggle my ears.” “Waggle your ears! For heaven’s sake, why?” “Because then I’d be such a perfect jackass that I could win medals at a show. I ought to have guessed it at first glance, from the fact that the advertisement couldn’t well have been mailed to Robinson originally, anyhow.” “Why not?”