st you to
rout out jus' one line from an ad an' pay you for the trouble. My own
ad, too. If it runs, it's my finish. I was nutty when I wrote it. Fer
Gawsake, Misser--"

"Stop it! You say Morrison sent you here?"

"No, sir. Not exac'ly. 'S like this, M' Wald'mar. I hadda get to you
some way. It's important to Misser Morrison, too. But he don't know I
come. He don't know nothing about it. Oh, Gaw! If he finds out--"

"Put that money back in your pockets."

With an ashen face of despair, the man obeyed. As he finished, he began
to sag at the joints. Slowly he slackened down until he was on his
knees, an abject spectacle of disgust.

"Stand up," ordered Waldemar.

"Liss'n; liss'n t' me," moaned the man. "I'll make it three thousand.
Fi' thou--"

"Stand up!"

The editor's hearty grip on his coat collar heaved the creature to
his feet. For a moment he struggled, panting, then spun, helpless
and headlong from the room, striking heavily against the passage wall
outside. There was a half-choked groan; then his footsteps slumped away
into silence.

"Ugh!" grunted Waldemar. "Come back, Jones."

Average Jones reentered. "Have you no curiosity in your composition?" he
asked.

"Not much--having been reared in the newspaper business."

Stooping, Average Jones picked up the glasses which the man had thrown
on the floor and examined them carefully. "Rather a fine instrument," he
observed. "Marked N. K. I think I'll follow up the owner."

"You'll never find him now. He has too much start."

"Not at all. When a man is in his state of abject funk, it's ten to one
he lands at the nearest bar. Wait for me."

In fifteen minutes Average Jones was back. There was a curious
expression on his face as he nodded an assent to his friend's inquiring
eyebrows.

"Where?" asked Waldemar.

"On the floor of a Park Row saloon."

"Dead drunk, eh?"

"No--er; not--er--drunk. Dead."

Waldemar stiffened in his chair. "Dead!" he repeated.

"Poison, probably. The ad was his finish, as he said. The next thing is
to find it."

"The first edition will be down any minute now. But it'll take some
finding. Why, counting 'classified,' we're carrying fifteen hundred ads
in every issue. With no clue to the character of this one--"'

"Plenty of clue," said Average Jones suavely. "You'll find it on the
sporting page, I think."

"Judging from the man's appearance? Rather far-fetched, isn't it?"

"Judging from a pair of very fine binoculars