RANSOM—Lost lad from Harwick not drowned or harmed. Retained for ransom. Safe and sound to parents for $50,000. Write, Mortimer Morley, General Delivery, N. Y. Post-Office. “Thought that’d catch you,” chuckled Mr. Spofford, in great self-congratulation. “‘Jones’ll see into this,’ I says to myself. ‘If he don’t, I’ll explain.’ Somethin’ _to_ that, ay?” Average Jones looked from the advertisement to the vacuous smile of Mr. Algernon Spofford. “Oh, you’ll explain, will you?” he said softly. “Well, the thing I’d like to have explained is—come over here to the window a minute, will you, Algy?” Mr. Spofford came, and gazed down upon a dispiriting area of rain-swept street and bedraggled wayfarers. “See that ten-story office building across the way?” pursued Average Jones. “What would you do if, coming in here at midnight, you were to see twenty-odd rats ooze out of that building and disperse about their business?” “I—I’d quit,” said the startled promptly. “That’s the obvious solution,” retorted “but my question wasn’t intended to elicit a brand of music-hall humor.” Spofford contemplated the building uneasily. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Average,” he complained. “Is it a catch?” “No; it’s a test case. What would you do?” “I’d think it was Billy-be-dashed queer,” answered Spofford with profound conviction. “You’re getting on,” said Jones tartly. “And next?” “Ay? How do I know? What’re you devilin’ me this way for?” “You wouldn’t call a policeman?” “No,” said Spofford, staring. “You wouldn’t hustle around and ’phone Central?” “Bosh!” “Yet if any one told you you hadn’t the sense of a policeman, you’d resent it.” “Of course, I would!” “Well, Jimmy McCue, the night special, who patrols past the corner, saw that very thing happen a few nights ago at the Sterriter Building. Knowing that rats don’t go out at midnight for a saunter, two dozen strong, he began to suspect.” “Suspect what?” growled Spofford. “That there must be some abnormal cause for so abnormal a proceeding. Think, now, Algy.” “I’ve heard of rats leavin’ a sinkin’ ship. The building might have been sinkin’,” suggested the visitor hopefully. “Is that the best you can do? I’ll give you one more try.” “I know,” said Spofford. “A cat.” “On my soul,” declared Average Jones, gazing at his club-mate with increased interest, “you’re the most remarkable specimen of inverted mentality I’ve ever encountered. D’you think a cat habitually rounds up two dozen rats and then chivies ’em out into the street for sport? McCue didn’t have any cat theory. He figured that when rats come out of a place that way the place is afire. So he turned in an alarm and saved a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar building.” “Umph!” grunted Spofford. “Well, what’s that got to do with the advertisement I brought you?”