office, the business
manager said. Wouldn't sign his name to the thing. Wouldn't say anything
about it. Begged the manager to let him have the weather reports in
advance, every day. The manager put the advertisement in type, decided
not to it, and returned the money."

"'Weather reports, eh?" Average Jones mused a moment. "How long was the
ad to run?"

"Until the first hard frost."

"Has there--er--been a--er--frost since?" drawled Average Jones.

"No."

"Who is this Moseley?"

"Don't know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, I
believe. Very exclusive," added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin. "Never
sociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though. Insane,
too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in them."

"How's that?" inquired Average Jones.

The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "It got
enclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The handwriting
on the envelope is his own. Look inside."

A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in New
York on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was a small
slip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubber stamp. There was no
writing of any kind. Near the center of the sheet were three dots. They
seemed to have been made with red ink.

"You're sure the address is in Professor Moseley's writing?"

"I'd swear to it."

"It doesn't follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I should judge
that it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not to have any
specimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.

"Perhaps. What's your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious young
friend?"

"Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours."

"Well, I've got my man. He confessed."

"Confessed?" echoed Average Jones.

"Practically. I've kept the point of the story to the last. Professor
Moseley committed suicide this morning."

If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on his visitor,
his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet slowly, walked
over to the window, returned, picked up the strange proof with its
message of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the window, and
stared out into the day.

"Cut his throat about nine o'clock this morning," pursued the other.
"Dead when they found him."

"Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?" said Average Jones curtly.

"Told to hold my to