“Oh, I’ve just a hunch that the sender of those messages doesn’t go out unaccompanied.” “Insane? Or semi-insane? It does rather look like delusional paranoia.” As nearly as imperfect humanity may, Average Jones appeared to be smiling indulgently at the end of his own nose. “Dare say you’re right—er—in part, Bert. But I’ve also a hunch that our man Robinson is himself the delusion as well as the object.” “I wish you wouldn’t be cryptic, Average,” said his friend pathetically. “There’s been enough of that without your gratuitously adding to the sum of human bewilderment.”, Average Jones scribbled a few words on a pad, considered, amended, and handed the result over to Bertram, who read: WANTED—Professional envelope eraser to remove marks from used envelopes. Experience essential. Apply at once—A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple.” “Would it enlighten your gloom to see that in every New York and Brooklyn paper to-morrow?” inquired its inventor. “Not a glimmer.” “We’ll give this ad a week’s repetition if necessary, before trying more roundabout measures. As soon as I have heard from it I’ll drop in at the club and we’ll write—that is to say, compose a letter.” “To whom?” “Oh, that I don’t know yet. When I do, you’ll see me.” Three days later Average Jones entered the Cosmic Club, with that twinkling up-turn of the mouth corners which, with him, indicated satisfactory accomplishment. “Really, Bert,” he remarked, seeking out his languid friend, in the laziest corner of the large divan. “You’d be surprised to know how few experienced envelope erasers there are in four millions of population. Only seven people answered that advertisement, and they were mostly tyros.” “Then you didn’t get your man?” “It was a woman. The fifth applicant. Got a pin about you?” Bertram took a pearl from his scarf. “That’s good. It will make nice, bold, inevitable sort of letters. Come over here to this desk.” For a few moments he worked at a sheet of, paper with the pin, then threw it down in disgust. “This sort of thing requires practice,” he muttered. “Here, Bert, you’re cleverer with your fingers than I. You take it, and I’ll dictate.” Between them, after several failures, they produced a fair copy of the following: “Mr. Alden Honeywell will choose between making explanation to the post-office authorities or calling at 3:30 P. m. to-morrow on A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple.” This Average Jones enclosed in an envelope which he addressed in writing to Alden Honeywell, Esq., 550 West Seventy-fourth Street, City, afterward pin-pricking the letters in outline. “Just for moral effect,” he explained. “In part this ought to give him a taste of the trouble he made for poor Robinson. You’ll be there to-morrow, Bert?” “Watch me!” replied that gentleman with unwonted emphasis. “But will Alden Honeywell, Esquire?” “Surely. Also Mr. William H. Robinson, of the Caronia. Note that ‘of the Caronia.’ It’s significant.”