Jones in a
swift aside to Bertram, "he certainly wouldn't know the more obscure
Latin of the late Mr. Hadrian."

"One more question, Mr. Robinson. Is there, in all your acquaintance,
any person who never goes out without an attendant? Take time to think,
now."

"Why--why--why," stuttered the appalled subject of this examination, and
fell into silence. From the depths of the silence he presently exhumed
the following: "I did have a paralytic cousin who always went out in a
wheeled chair. But she's dead."

"And there's no one else?"

"No. I'm quite sure."

"That's all. Good-by."

"Thank Heaven! Good-by."

"What was that about an attendant?" inquired Bertram, as his friend
replaced the receiver.

"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 tyro