hat was the husband's
name?"

"Arbuthnot, I believe."

"Do you know what sort of looking man he was?"

"No. I could find out from Washington."

"What was his business?"

"Government employment, I think."

"In the--er--scientific line, perhaps?" drawled Jones.

"Why, yes, I believe it was."

"Um-m. Suppose, now, Linder should drop out of the combination. Who
would be the most likely nominee?"

"Marsden--the man I've been grooming for the place. A first-class,
honorable, fearless man."

"Well, it's only a chance; but if I can get one dark point cleared up--"

He paused as a curious, tingling note came from the platform where the
musicians were tuning tip.

"One of Bellerding's sweet dulcets," observed Bertram.

The Performer nearest them was running a slow bass scale on a sort
of two-stringed horse-fiddle of a strange shape. Average Jones' still
untouched glass, almost full of the precious port, trembled and sang
a little tentative response. Up-up-up mounted the thrilling notes, in
crescendo force.

"What a racking sort of tone, for all its sweetness!" said Average
Jones. His delicate and fragile port glass evidently shared the opinion,
for, without further warning, it split and shivered.

"They used to show that experiment in the laboratory," said Bertram.
"You must have had just the accurate amount of liquid in the glass,
Average. Move back, you lunatic, it's dripping all over you."

But Average Jones sat unheeding. The liquor dribbled down into his
lap. He kept his fascinated gaze fixed on the shattered glass. Bertram
dabbed him with a napkin.

"Tha--a--anks, Bertram," drawled the beneficiary of this attention.
"Doesn't matter. Excuse me. Good night."

Leaving his surprised companions, he took hat and cane and caught a
Third Avenue car. By the time he had reached Brooklyn Bridge he had his
campaign mapped out. It all depended upon the opening question. Average
Jones decided to hit out and hit quick.

At the house near the Navy Yard he learned that his man was out. So he
sat upon the front steps while one of the highest-priced wines in New
York dried into his knees. Shortly before eleven a shuffling figure
paused at the steps, feeling for a key.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, otherwise Ransom?" said Average Jones blandly.

The man's chin jerked back. His jaw dropped.

"Would you like to hire another B-flat trombonist?" pursued the young
man.

"Who are you?" gasped the other. "What do you want?"

"I