etail the various attempts
on the young chemist's life.

"But why so roundabout a method?" asked Dorr skeptically.

"Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you through
agents. That didn't work. It was up to the Trust to put one of its own
confidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He devised a
means that looked to be pretty safe and, in the long run, sure."

"And would have been but for your skill, young Jones," declared Mr.
Curtis Fleming, with emphasis.

"Don't forget the fortunate coincidences," replied Average Jones
modestly. "They're about half of it. In fact, detective work, for all
that is said on the other side, is mostly the ability to recognize and
connect coincidences. The coincidence of the escape of the Red Dots from
Professor Moseley's breeding cages; the coincidence of the death of the
dogs on Golden Hill, followed by the death of the child; the coincidence
of poor Moseley's having left the red dot letters on the desk instead
of destroying them; the coincidence of Dorr's dogs being bitten, when it
might easily have been himself had he gone to turn on the radiator and
disturbed the savage little spider--"'

"And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in the
advertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more to scare
off further attempts than anything else," put in Dorr. "What became of
the spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?"

"Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. The others
may well have died of cold. At night when the heat was off and the
windows open. The cleaning woman wouldn't have been likely to notice
them when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later, if Ross had
continued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one of them would have
bitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust would have gone on its way
rejoicing."

"Well, you've certainly saved my life," declared Dorr, "and it's a case
of sheer force of reasoning."

Average Jones shook his head. "You might give some of the credit to
Providence," he said. "Just one little event would have meant the
saving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the death of
yourself, instead of the other way around."

"And that event?" asked Mr. Curtis Fleming.

"Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport," replied Average Jones.

CHAPTER III. OPEN TRAIL

"Not good enough," said Average Jones, laying aside a sheet of paper
upon which was pas