ten thousand black beetles in your
boarding-house, though?" inquired Average Jones.

Simpson took it under advisement. "Hardly," he decided.

"I've got to have 'em to fill an order. At least, I've got to have an
installment of 'em, and to-morrow."

Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk was impervious
to surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise, his employment
as practical aide to Average Jones would probably have driven him into
a madhouse. He now ran his long, thin, clerkly hands through his long,
thin, clerkly hair.

"Ramson, down on Fulton Street, will have them, if any one has," he said
presently. "He does business under the title of the Insect Nemesis, you
know. I'll go there at once."

Returning to his routine work, Average Jones found himself unable to
dislodge the advertisement from his mind. So presently he gave way to
temptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked him to
come to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience. Scenting more
adventure, Bertram found it convenient to come promptly. Average Jones
handed him the clipping. Bertram read it with ascending eyebrows.

"Hoots!" he said. "The man's mad."

"I didn't ask you here to diagnose the advertiser's trouble. That's
plain enough--though you've made a bad guess. What I want of you is to
tap your flow of information about old New York. What's at One Hundred
West Sixteenth Street?"

"One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it's the old
Feltner mansion. You must know it. It has a walled garden at the side;
the only one left in the city, south of Central Park."

"Any one named Ackroyd there?"

"That must be Hawley Ackroyd. I remember, now, hearing that he had
rented it. Judge Ackroyd, you know, better known as 'Oily' Ackroyd. He's
a smooth old rascal."

"Indeed? What particular sort?"

"Oh, most sorts, in private. Professionally, he's a legislative crook;
head lobbyist of the Consolidated."

"Ever hear of his collecting insects?"

"Never heard of his collecting anything but graft. In fact, he'd have
been in jail years ago, but for his family connections. He married a
Van Haltern. You remember the famous Van Haltern will case, surely; the
million-dollar dog. The papers fairly, reeked of it a year ago.
Sylvia Graham had to take the dog and leave the country to escape the
notoriety. She's back now, I believe."

"I've heard of Miss Graham," remarked Average Jones, "through frie