ngue in my own house by uninvited stripling," cackled
the other. "You' re a singular young man. Have it your own way."

After a five minutes' silence the visitor turned from the window and
spoke. "There has been a deadly danger loose about here for which
Professor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself. Why?"

"Because I was on his trail," declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Afraid to
face me."

"Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this thing,
whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley to suicide."

"Prove it."

"Give me a morning paper."

His host handed him the current issue of the Delineator.

Average Jones studied the local page.

"Where's Galvin's Alley?" he asked presently.

"Two short blocks from here."

"In the Golden Hill section?"

"Yes."

"Read that."

Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to a paragraph
telling of the death of an Italian child living in Galvin's Alley.
Cause, convulsions.

"By Jove!" said he, somewhat awed. "You can reason, young man."

"I've got to, reason a lot further, if I'm to get anywhere in this
affair," said Average Jones with conviction. "Do you care, to come to
Galvin's Alley with me?"

Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by white
crepe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English. They said
that four-year-old Pietro had been playing around a woodpile the
afternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home, staggering. The
doctor could do nothing. The little one passed from spasm into spasm,
and died in an hour.

"Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?" asked
Average Jones.

The dead child's father looked surprised. That, he said, was what the
strange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer, bent
little gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who was kind, and
wept with them and gave them money to bury the "bambino."

"Moseley, by the Lord Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. "But what
was the death-agent?"

Average Jones shook his head. "Too early to do more than guess. Will you
take me to Professor Moseley's place?"

The old house stood four-square, with a patched-up conservatory on one
wing. In the front room they found the recluse's body decently disposed,
with an undertaker's assistant in charge. From the greenhouse came a
subdued hissing.

"What's that?" asked Jones.

"Fumigating the conservatory.