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?"

"Because he's not in the sporting-goods business, and the advertisement
is obviously addressed to the retail trade. Don't you remember: it
offers a showcase, free. What does a man living in an apartment want
of a show-case to keep artificial bait in? What we--er--need here
is--er--steam."

A moment's manipulation of the radiator produced a small jet. In this
Average Jones held the envelope. The stamp curled tip and dropped off.
Beneath it were the remains of a small portion of a former postmark.

"I thought so," murmured Average Jones.

"Remailed!" exclaimed Bertram.

"Remailed," corroborated his friend. "I expect we'll find the others the
same."

One by one he submitted the envelopes to the steam bath. Each of them,
as the stamp was peeled off, exhibited more or less fragmentary signs of
a previous cancellation.

"Careless work," criticized Average Jones. "Every bit of the mark should
have been removed, instead of trusting to the second stamp to cover what
little was left, by shifting it a bit toward the center of the envelope.
Look; you can see on this one where the original stamp was peeled off.
On this the traces of erasure are plain enough. That's why Manila paper
was selected: it's easier to erase from."

"Is Robinson faking?" asked Bertram. "Or has some one been rifling his
waste-basket?"

"That would mean an accomplice in the house, which would be dangerous.
I think it was done at longer range. As for the question of our friend's
faking in his claim of complete ignorance of all this, I propose to find
that out right now."

Drawing the telephone to him, he called the Caronia apartments. Thus it
was that Mr. William H. Robinson, for two unhappy minutes, profoundly
feared that at last he had really lost his mind. This is the
conversation in which he found himself implicated.

"Hello! Mr. Robinson? This is Mr. A. Jones. You hear me?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones. What is it?"

"Integer vitae, scelerisque-purus."

"I--I--beg your pardon!"

"Non egit Mauris jaculis nec arcu."

"This is Mr. Robinson: Mr. William H. Rob--"

"Nec venenatis grasida sag--Hello! Central, don't cut off! Mr. Robinson,
do you understand me?"

"God knows, I don't!"

"If he doesn't recognize the Integer Vitae," said Average