ew career, at the newspaper owner's instance. The young
man's color was less pronounced, and his eyes, though alert and eager,
showed rings under them.

"You have found the work interesting, I take it," remarked the visitor.

"Ra--ather," drawled Average Jones appreciatively.

"That was a good initial effort, running down the opium pill mail-order
enterprise."

"It was simple enough as soon as I saw the catchword in the 'Wanted'
line."

"Anything is easy to a man who sees," returned the older man
sententiously. "The open eye of the open mind--that has more to do with
real detective work than all the deduction and induction and analysis
ever devised."

"It is the detective part that interests me most in the game, but I
haven't had much of it, yet. You haven't run across any promising ads
lately, have you?"

Waldemar's wide, florid brow wrinkled.

"I haven't thought or dreamed of anything for a month but this infernal
bomb explosion."

"Oh, the Linder case. You're personally interested?"

"Politically. It makes Linder's nomination certain. Persecution.
Attempted assassination. He becomes a near-martyr. I'm almost ready to
believe that he planted a fake bomb himself."

"And fell out of a third-story window to carry out the idea? That's
pushing realism rather far, isn't it?"

Waldemar laughed. "There's the weakness. Unless we suppose that he
under-reckoned the charge of explosive."

"They let the musician go, didn't they?"

"Yes. There was absolutely no proof against him, except that he was in
the street below. Besides, he seemed quite lacking mentally."

"Mightn't that have been a sham?"

"Alienists, of good standing examined him. They reported him just a
shade better than half-witted. He was like a one-ideaed child, his
whole being comprised in his ability, and ambition to play his B-flat
trombone."

"Well, if I needed an accomplice," said Average Jones thoughtfully, "I
wouldn't want any better one than a half-witted man. Did he play well?"

"Atrociously. And if you know what a soul-shattering blare exudes from a
B-flat trombone--" Mr. Waldemar lifted expressive hands.

Within Average Jones' overstocked mind something stirred at the
repetition of the words "B-flat trombone." Somewhere they had attracted
his notice in print; and somehow they were connected with Waldemar.
Then from amidst the hundreds of advertisements with which, in the past
weeks, he had crowded his brain, one stood out clear. It