"The poem gets the hook!" he snarled. "Go on!" "The next," continued young Sayre, referring to his edible note-book, "is the case of De Lancy Smith. On May 16th he left his camp, taking with him his rod with the intention of trying for some of the larger, wilder, and more dangerous trout which it is feared still infest the remoter streams of the State forest. "His luncheon, consisting of truffled pates and champagne, was found by a searching party, but De Lancy Smith has never again been seen or heard of. He was young, well built, handsome, and----" "In excellent physical condition!" snapped Mr. Trinkle. "That's the third Adonis you've described. Quit it!" "But that is the exact description of those three young men----" "Every one of 'em?" "Every one. They all seem to have been exceptionally handsome and healthy." "Well, does that suggest any clue to you? Think! Use your mind. Do you see any clue?" "In what?" "In the probably similar fate of so much masculine beauty?" The young men looked at him, perplexed, silent. Mr. Trinkle waved his hands in desperation. "Wake up!" he shouted. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that every one of them so far has been Gibsonian perfection itself? Doesn't that seem funny? Doesn't it suggest some connection with the present Franchise strike?" "It _is_ odd," said Langdon, thoughtfully. "You notice," bellowed Mr. Trinkle, "that no young man disappears who isn't a physical Adonis, do you? No thin-shanked, stoop-shouldered, scant-haired highbrow has yet vanished. You notice that, don't you, Sayre? Open your mouth and speak! Say anything! Say pip! if you like--only say _something_!" The young man nodded, bewildered, and his mouth remained open. "All right, all right--as long as you _do_ notice it," yelled the city editor, "it looks safe for you; I guess _you_ both will come back, all right--in case any of these suffragettes have become desperate and have started kidnapping operations." Langdon was rather thin; he glanced sideways at Sayre, who wore glasses and whose locks were prematurely scant. "Go on, William," he said, with a crisp precision of diction which betrayed irritation and Harvard. Sayre examined his notes, and presently read from them: "The fourth and last victim of the Adirondack wilderness disappeared very recently--May 24th. His name was Alphonso W. Green, a wealthy amateur artist. When last seen he was followed by his valet, who carried a white umbrella, a folding stool, a box of colours, and several canvases. After luncheon the valet went back to the Gilded Dome Hotel to fetch some cigarettes. When he returned to where he had left his master painting a picture of something, which he thinks was a tree, but which may have been cows in bathing, Mr. Green had vanished. . . . Hum--hum!--ahem! He was young, well built, handsome, and----" "Kill it!" thundered the city editor, purple with passion. "But it's the official descrip----"