oice.
"But--" and the voice stopped.

"Hello, Bert," returned the Ad-Visor, looking up at the faultlessly clad
slenderness of his occasional coadjutor, Robert Bertram. "Sit down and
keep me awake till the human snail who's hypothetically ministering to
my wants can get me some coffee."

"What particular phase of intellectual debauchery have you been up to
now?" inquired Bertram, lounging into the chair opposite.

"Trying to forget my troubles by chasing up a promising lead which
failed to pan, out. 'Wanted: a Tin Nose,' sounds pretty good, eh?"

"It is music to my untutored ear," answered Bertram.

"But it turned out to be merely an error of the imbecile, or perhaps
facetious printer, who sets up the Trumpeter's personal column. It
should have read, 'Wanted--a Tea Rose."'

"Even that seems far from commonplace."

"Only a code summons for a meeting of the Rosicrucians. I suppose you
know that the order has been revived here in America."

"Not the true Rosicrucians, surely!" said Bertram.

"They pretend to be. A stupid lot who make child's play of it," said
Average Jones impatiently. "Never mind them. I'd rather know what's
on your mind. You made an observation when you came in, rather more
interesting than your usual output of table-talk. You said 'but' and
nothing further. The conjunction 'but,' in polite grammar, ordinarily
has a comet-like tail to it."

"Apropos of polite grammar, do you speak Latin?" asked Bertram
carelessly.

"Not enough to be gossipy in it."

"Then you wouldn't care to give a job to a man who can't speak anything
else?"

"On that qualification alone?"

"No-o, not entirely. He is a good military engineer, I believe."

"So that's the other end of the 'but,' is it?" said Average Jones. "Go
on. Elaborate."

Bertram laid before his friend a printed clipping in clear, large type,
saying: "When I read this, I couldn't resist the notion that somehow
or other it was in your line; pursuit of the adventure of life, and all
that. Let's see what you make of it."

Average Jones straightened in his chair.

"Latin!" he said. "And an ad, by the look of it. Can our blind friend,
J. Alden Honeywell, have taken to the public prints?"

"Hardly, I think. This is from the Classical Weekly, a Baltimore
publication of small and select patronage."

"Hm. Looks ra-a-a-ather alluring," commented Average Jones with a
prolonged drawl. "Better than the Rosicrucian fakery, anyhow."

He bent over the cli