CHAPTER XI. THE MILLION-DOLLAR DOG
To this day, Average Jones maintains that he felt a distinct thrill atfirst sight of the advertisement. Yet Fate might well have chosen amore appropriate ambush in any one of a hundred of the strange clippingswhich were grist to the Ad-Visor's mill. Out of a bulky pile of theday's paragraphs, however, it was this one that leaped, significant, tohis eye.
WANTED--Ten thousand loathly black beetles, by A leaseholder who contracted to leave a house in the same condition as he found it. Ackroyd, 100 W. Sixteenth St. New York
"Black beetles, eh?" observed Average Jones. "This Ackroyd person seemsto be a merry little jester. Well, I'm feeling rather jocular, myself,this morning. How does one collect black beetles, I wonder? When indoubt, inquire of the resourceful Simpson."
He pressed a button and his confidential clerk entered.
"Good morning, Simpson," said Average Jones.
"Are you acquainted with that shy but pervasive animal, the domesticblack beetle?"
"Yes, sir; I board," said Simpson simply.
"I suppose there aren't ten thousand black beetles in yourboarding-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 aninstallment of 'em, and to-morrow."
Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk was imperviousto surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise, his employmentas practical aide to Average Jones would probably have driven him intoa 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 saidpresently. "He does business under the title of the Insect Nemesis, youknow. I'll go there at once."
Returning to his routine work, Average Jones found himself unable todislodge the advertisement from his mind. So presently he gave way totemptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked him tocome to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience. Scenting moreadventure, Bertram found it convenient to come promptly. Average Joneshanded 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'splain enough--though you've made a bad guess. What I want of you is totap your flow of information about old New York. What's at One HundredWest Sixteenth Street?"
"One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it's the oldFeltner 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 hadrented it. Judge Ackroyd, you know, better known as 'Oily' Ackroyd. He'sa 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 havebeen in jail years ago, but for his family connections. He married aVan Haltern. You remember the famous Van Haltern will case, surely; themillion-dollar dog. The papers fairly, reeked of it a year ago.Sylvia Graham had to take the dog and leave the country to escape thenotoriety. She's back now, I believe."
"I've heard of Miss Graham," remarked Average Jones, "through friends ofmine whom she visits."
"Well, if you've only heard of her and not seen her," returned Bertram,with something as nearly resembling enthusiasm as his habitual languorpermitted, "you've got something to look forward to. Sylvia Graham is adistinct asset to the Scheme of Creation."
"An asset with assets of her own, I believe," said Average Jones. "Themillion dollars left by her grandmother, old Mrs. Van Haltern, goes toher eventually; doesn't it?"
"Provided she carries out the terms of the will, keeps the dog in properluxury and buries him in the grave on the family estate at Schuylkilldesignated by the testator. If these terms are not rigidly carried out,the fortune is to be divided, most of it going to Mrs. Hawley Ackroyd,which would mean the judge himself. I should say that the dog was asgood as sausage meat if 'Oily' ever gets hold of him."
"H'm. What about Mrs. Ackroyd?"
"Poor, sickly, frightened lady! She's very fond of Sylvia Graham, who isher niece. But she's completely dominated by her husband."
"Information is your long suit, Bert. Now, if you only had intelligenceto correspond--" Average Jones broke off and grinned mildly, first athis friend, then at the advertisement.
Bertram caught up the paper and studied it. "Well, what does it mean?"he demanded.
"It means that Ackroyd, being about to give up his rented house, intendsto saddle it with a bad name. Probably he's had a row with the agent orowner, and is getting even by making the place difficult to rent again.Nobody wants to take a house with the reputation of an entomologicalresort."
"It would be just like Oily Ackroyd," remarked Bertram. "He's avindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poor devilof a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed to keep it outof the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine."
"That might be worth looking up, too," ruminated Average Jonesthoughtfully.
He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. "All right, come, in,Simpson," he said.
The confidential clerk appeared. "Ramson says that regular black beetlesare out of season, sir," he reported. "But he can send to the countryand dig up plenty of red-and-black ones."
"That will do," returned the Ad-Visor. "Tell him to have two or threehundred here to-morrow morning."
Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. "Meaning that you're going tofollow up this freak affair?" he inquired.
"Just that. I can't explain why, but--well, Bert, I've a hunch. Atthe worst, Ackroyd's face when he sees the beetles should be worth themoney."
"When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you, lookout for Ackroyd. He's as big as he is ugly; a tough customer."
"All right. I'll just put on some old clothes, to dress the part of abeetle-purveyor correctly, and also in case I get 'em torn in my meetingwith judge 'Oily.' I'll see you later--and report, if I survive hiswrath."
Thus it was that, on the morning after this dialogue, a clean-builtyoung fellow walked along West Sixteenth Street, appreciatively sniffingthe sunny crispness of the May air. He was rather shabby looking, yethis demeanor was by no means shabby. It was confident and easy. On theevidence of the bandbox which he carried, his mission should havebeen menial; but he bore himself wholly unlike one subdued to pettyemployments. His steady, gray eyes showed a glint of anticipation ashe turned in at the gate of the high, broad, brown house standing back,aloof and indignant, from the roaring encroachments of trade. He set hisburden down and, pulled the bell.
The door opened promptly to the deep, far-away clangor. A flashingimpression of girlish freshness, vigor, and grace was disclosed to thecaller against a background of interior gloom. He stared a little morepatently than was polite. Whatever his expectation of amusement, this,evidently, was not the manifestation looked for. The girl glanced not athim, but at the box, and spoke a trifle impatiently.
"If it's my hat, it's very late. You should have gone to the basement."
"It isn't, miss," said the young man, in a form of address, thesemi-servility of which seemed distinctly out of tone with the quietlyclear and assured voice. "It's the insects."
"The what?"'
"The bugs, miss."'
He extracted from his pocket a slip of paper, looked from it to thenumbered door, as one verifying an address, and handed it to her.
"From yesterday's copy of the Banner, miss. You're not going back onthat, surely," he said somewhat reproachfully.
She read, and as she read her eyes widened to lakes of limpid brown.Then they crinkled at the
corners, and her laugh rose from the mid-tonecontralto, to a high, bird-like trill of joyousness. The infection of ittugged at the young man's throat, but he successfully preserved his maskof flat and respectful dullness.
"It must have been Uncle," she gasped finally. "He said he'd be quitswith the real estate agent before he left. How perfectly absurd! And arethose the creatures in that box?"
"The first couple of hundred of 'em, miss."
"Two hundred!" Again the access of laughter swelled the rounded bosom asthe breeze fills a sail. "Where did you get them?"
"Woodpile, ash-heap, garbage-pail," said the young man stolidly. "Anyparticular kind preferred, Miss Ackroyd?"
The girl looked at him with suspicion, but his face was blanklyinnocent.
"I'm not Miss Ackroyd," she began with emphasis, when a querulous voicefrom an inner room called out: "Whom are you talking to, Sylvia?"
"A young man with a boxful of beetles," returned the girl, adding inbrisk French: "Il est tres amusant ce farceur. Je ne le comprends pas dutout. Cest une blague, peut-etre. Si on l'invitait dans la maison pourun moment?"
Through one of the air-holes, considerately punched in the cardboardcover of the box, a sturdy crawler had succeeded in pushing himself.He was, in the main, of a shiny and well-groomed black, but two largepatches of crimson gave him the festive appearance of being garbed ina brilliant sash. As he stood rubbing his fore-legs together inself-congratulation over his exploit, his bearer addressed him in Frenchquite as ready as the girl's:
"Permettez-moi, Monsieur le Colioptere, de vous presenter mes excusespour cette demoiselle qui s'exprime en langue etrangere chez elle."
"Don't apologize to the beetle on my account," retorted the girl withspirit. "You're here on your own terms, you know, both of you."
Average Jones mutely held up the box in one hand and the advertisementin the other. The adventurer-bug flourished a farewell to the girl withhis antennae, and retired within to advise his fellows of the charms offreedom.
"Very well," said the girl, in demure tones, though lambent mirth stillflickered, golden, in the depths of the brown eyes. "If you persist,I can only suggest that you come back when Judge Ackroyd is here.You won't find him particularly amenable to humor, particularly whenperpetrated by a practical joker in masquerade."
"Discovered," murmured Average Jones. "I shouldn't have vaunted my poorFrench. But must I really take my little friends all the way back? Yousuggested to the mystic voice within that I might be invited inside."
"You seem a decidedly unconventional person," began the other withdawning disfavor.
"Conventionality, like charity, begins at home," he replied quickly."And one would hardly call this advertisement a pattern of formaletiquette."
"True enough," she admitted, dimpling, and Average Jones wascongratulating himself on his diplomacy, when the querulous voice brokein again, this time too low for his ears.
"I don't ask you the real reason for your extraordinary call," pursuedthe girl with a glint of mischief in her eyes, after she had respondedin an aside, "but auntie thinks you've come to steal my dog. She thinksthat of every one lately."
"Auntie? Your dog? Then you're Sylvia Graham. I might have known it."
"I don't know how you might have known it. But I am Sylvia Graham--ifyou insist on introducing me to yourself."
"Miss Graham," said the visitor promptly and gravely, "let me presentA.V.R.E. Jones: a friend--"
"Not the famous Average Jones!" cried the girl. "That is why your faceseemed so familiar. I've seen your picture at Edna Hale's. You got her'blue fires' back for her. But really, that hardly explains your beinghere, in this way, you know."
"Frankly, Miss Graham, it was just as a lark that I answered theadvertisement. But now that I'm here and find you here, it looks--er--asif it might--er--be more serious."
A tinge of pink came into the girl's cheeks, but she answered lightlyenough:
"Indeed, it may, for you, if uncle finds you here with those beetles."
"Never mind me or the beetles. I'd like to know about the dog that youraunt is worrying over. Is he here with you?"
The soft curve of Miss Graham's lips straightened a little. "I reallythink," she said with decision, "that you had better explain furtherbefore questioning."
"Nothing simpler. Once upon a time there lived a crack-brained young DonQuixote who wandered through an age of buried romance piously searchingfor trouble. And, twice upon a time, there dwelt in an enchantedstone castle in West Sixteenth Street an enchanting young damsel indistress--"
"I'm not a damsel in distress," interrupted Miss Graham, passing overthe adjective.
The young man leaned to her. The half smile had passed from his lips,and his eyes were very grave.
"Not--er--if your dog were to--er--disappear?" he drawled quietly.
The swift unexpectedness of the counter broke down the girl's guard.
"You mean Uncle Hawley," she said.
"And your suspicions jump with mine."
"They don't!" she denied hotly. "You're very unjust and impertinent."
"I don't mean to be impertinent," he said evenly. "And I have nomonopoly of injustice."
"What do you know about Uncle Hawley?"
"Your aunt--"'
"I won't hear a word against my aunt."
"Not from me, be assured. Your aunt, so you have just told me, believesthat your dog is in danger of being stolen. Why? Because she knows thatthe person most interested has been scheming against the animal, and yetshe is afraid to warn you openly. Doesn't that indicate who it is?"
"Mr. Jones, I've no right even to let you talk like this to me. Have youanything definite against Judge Ackroyd?"
"In this case, only suspicion."
Her head went up. "Then I think there is nothing more to be said."
The young man flushed, but his voice was steady as he returned:
"I disagree with you. And I beg you to cut short your visit here, andreturn to your home at once."
In spite of herself the girl was shaken by his persistence. "I can't dothat," she said uneasily. And added, with a flash of anger, "I think youhad better leave this house."
"If I leave this house now I may never have any chance to see youagain."
The girl regarded him with level, non-committal eyes.
"And I have every intention of seeing you again--and--again--and again.Give me a chance; a moment."
Average Jones' mind was of the emergency type. It summoned to its aid,without effort of cerebration on the part of its owner, whatever wasmost needed at the moment. Now it came to his rescue with the memory ofjudge Ackroyd's encounter with the drug clerk, as mentioned by Bertram.There was a strangely hopeful suggestion of some link between adrug-store quarrel and the arrival of a million-dollar dog, "betterdead" in the hopes of his host.
"Miss Graham; I've gone rather far, I'll admit," said Jones; "but, ifyou'll give me the benefit of the doubt, I think I can show you somebasis to work on. If I can produce something tangible, may I comeback here this afternoon? I'll promise not to come unless I have goodreason."
"Very well," conceded Miss Graham reluctantly, "it's a most unusualthing. But I'll agree to that."
"Au revoir, then," he said, and was gone.
Somewhat to her surprise and uneasiness, Sylvia Graham experienceda distinct satisfaction when, late that afternoon, she beheld herunconventional acquaintance mounting the steps with a buoyant andassured step. Upon being admitted, he went promptly to the point.
"I've got it."
"Your justification for coming back?" she asked.
"Exactly. Have you heard anything of some trouble in which judge Ackroydwas involved last week?"
"Uncle has a very violent temper," admitted the girl evasively. "But Idon't see what--"
"Pardon me. You will see. That row was with a drug clerk."
"In an obscure drug store several blocks from here."
"Yes."
"The drug clerk insisted--as the law req
uires--on judge Ackroydregistering for a certain purchase."
"Perhaps he was impertinent about it."
"Possibly. The point is that the prospective purchase was cyanide ofpotassium, a deadly and instantaneous poison."
"Are you sure?" asked the girl, in a low voice.
"I've just come from the store. How long have you been here at youruncle's?"
"A week."
"Then just about the time of your coming with the dog, your uncleundertook to obtain a swift and sure poison. Have I gone far enough?"
"I--I don't know."
"Well, am I still ordered out of the house?"
"N-n-no."
"Thank you for your enthusiastic hospitality," said Average Jonesso dryly that a smile relaxed the girl's troubled face. "With thatencouragement we'll go on. What is your uncle's attitude toward thedog?"
"Almost what you might call ingratiating. But Peter Paul--that's mydog's name, you know--doesn't take to uncle. He's a crotchety olddoggie."
"He's a wise old doggie," amended the other, with emphasis. "Has youruncle taken him out, at all?"
"Once he tried to. I met them at the corner. All four of Peter Paul'spoor old fat legs were braced, and he was hauling back as hard as hecould against the leash."
"And the occurrence didn't strike you as peculiar?"
"Well, not then."
"When does your uncle give up this house?"
"At the end of the week. Uncle and aunt leave for Europe."
"Then let me suggest again that you and Peter Paul go at once."
Miss Graham pondered. "That would mean explanations and a quarrel, andmore strain for auntie, who is nervous enough, anyway. No, I can't dothat."
"Do you realize that every day Peter Paul remains here is an addedopportunity for judge Ackroyd to make a million dollars, or a big shareof it, by some very simple stratagem?"
"I haven't admitted yet that I believe my uncle to be a--a murderer,"Miss Graham quietly reminded him.
"A strong word," said Average Jones smiling. "The law would hardlysupport your view. Now, Miss Graham, would it grieve you very much ifPeter Paul were to die?"
"I won't have him put to death," said she quickly. "That would be,cheating my grandmother's intentions."
"I supposed you wouldn't. Yet it would be the simplest way. Once dead,and buried in accordance with the terms of the will, the dog would beout of his troubles, and you would be out of yours."
"It would really be a relief. Peter Paul suffers so from asthma, poorold beastie. The vet says he can live only a month or two longer,anyway. But I've got to do as Grandmother wished, and keep Peter Paulalive as long as possible."
"Admitted." Average Jones fell into a baffled silence, studying thepattern of the rug with restless eyes. When he looked up into MissGraham's face again it was with a changed expression.
"Miss Graham," he said slowly, "won't you try to forget, for the moment,the circumstances of our meeting, and think of me only as a friend ofyour friends who is very honestly eager to be a friend to you, when youmost need one?"
Now, Average Jones's birth-fairy had endowed him with one pricelessgift: the power of inspiring an instinctive confidence in himself.Sylvia Graham felt, suddenly, that a hand, sure and firm, had beenoutstretched to guide her on a dark path. In one of those rare flashesof companionship which come only when clean and honorable spiritsrecognize one another, all consciousness of sex was lost between them.The girl's gaze met the man's level, and was held in a long, silentregard.
"Yes," she said simply; and the heart of Average Jones rose and swore ahigh loyalty.
"Listen, then. I think I see a clear way. Judge Ackroyd will kill thedog if he can, and so effectually conceal the body that no funeral canbe held over it, thereby rendering your grandmother's bequest to youvoid. He has only a few days to do it in, but I don't think that allyour watchfulness can restrain him. Now, on the other hand, if the dogshould die a natural death and be buried, he can still contest thewill. But if he should kill Peter Paul and hide the body where we coulddiscover it, the game would be up for him, as he then wouldn't even dareto come into court with a contest. Do you follow me?"
"Yes. But you wouldn't ask me to be a party to any such thing."
"You're a party, involuntarily, by remaining here. But do your best tosave Peter Paul, if you will. And please call me up immediately at theCosmic Club, if anything in my line turns up."
"What is your line?" asked Miss Graham, the smile returning to herlips. "Creepy, crawly bugs? Or imperiled dogs? Or rescuing prospectivelydistressed damsels?"
"Technically it's advertising," replied Average Jones, who had beenformulating a shrewd little plan of his own. "Let me recommend to youthe advertising columns of the daily press. They're often amusing.Moreover your uncle might break out in print again. Who knows?"
"Who, indeed? I'll read religiously."
"And, by the way, my beetles. I forgot and left them here. Oh, there'sthe box. I may have a very specific use for them later. Au revoir--andmay it be soon!"
The two days succeeding seemed to Average Jones, haunted as he was byan importunate craving to look again into Miss Graham's limpid andchangeful eyes, a dull and sodden period of probation. The messengerboy who finally brought her expected note, looked to him like a Greekgodling. The note enclosed this clipping:
LOST-Pug dog answering to the name of Peter Paul. Very old and asthmatic. Last seen on West 16th Street. Liberal reward for information to Anxious. Care of Banner office.
Dear Mr. Jones (she had written):
Are you a prophet? (Average Jones chuckled, at this point.) The enclosedseems to be distinctly in our line. Could you come some time thisafternoon? I'm puzzled and a little anxious.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Graham.
Average Jones could, and did. He found Miss Graham's piquant face underthe stress of excitement, distinctly more alluring than before.
"Isn't it strange?" she said, holding out a hand in welcome. "Why shouldany one advertise for my Peter Paul? He isn't lost."
"I am glad to hear that," said the caller gravely.
"I've kept my promise, you see," pursued the girl. "Can you do as well,and live up to your profession of aid?"
"Try me."
"Very well, do you know what that advertisement means?"
"Perfectly."
"Then you're a very extraordinary person."
"Not in the least. I wrote it."
"Wrote it! You? Well--really! Why in the world did you write it?"
"Because of an unconquerable longing to see," Average Jones paused, andhis quick glance caught the storm signal in her eyes, "your uncle," heconcluded calmly.
For one fleeting instant a dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth.It departed. But departing, it swept the storm before it.
"What do you want to see uncle about, if it isn't an impertinentquestion?"
"It is, rather," returned the young man judicially. "Particularly, asI'm not sure, myself. I may want to quarrel with him."
"You won't have the slightest difficulty in that," the girl assured him.
She rang the bell, dispatched a servant, and presently judge Ackroydstalked into the room. As Average Jones was being presented, he tookcomprehensive note and estimate of the broad-cheeked, thin-lipped face;the square shoulders and corded neck, and the lithe and formidablecarriage of the man. Judge "Oily" Ackroyd's greeting of the guest withinhis gates did not bear out the sobriquet of his public life. It was curtto the verge of harshness.
"What is the market quotation on beetles, judge?" asked the young man,tapping the rug with his stick.
"What are you talking about?" demanded the other, drawing down his heavybrows.
"The black beetle; the humble but brisk haunter of household crevices,"explained Average Jones. "You advertised for ten thousand specimens.I've got a few thousand I'd like to dispose of, if the inducements aresufficient."
"I'm in no mood for joking, young man," retorted th
e other, rising.
"You seldom are, I understand," replied Average Jones blandly. "Well, ifyou won't talk about bugs, let's talk about dogs."
"The topic does not interest me, sir," retorted the other, and theglance of his eye was baleful, but uneasy.
The tapping of the young man's cane ceased. He looked up into his host'sglowering face with a seraphic and innocent smile.
"Not even if it--er--touched upon a device for guarding the streetcorners in case--er--Peter Paul went walking--er--once too often?"
Judge Ackroyd took one step forward. Average Jones was on his feetinstantly, and, even in her alarm, Sylvia Graham noticed how swiftlyand naturally his whole form "set." But the big man turned away, andabruptly left the room.
"Were you wise to anger him?" asked the girl, as the heavy tread diedaway on the stairs.
"Sometimes open declaration of war is the soundest strategy."
"War?" she repeated. "You make me feel like a traitor to my own family."
"That's the unfortunate part of it," he said; "but it can't be helped."
"You spoke of having some one guard the corners of the block," continuedthe girl, after a thoughtful silence. "Do you think I'd better arrangefor that?"
"No need. There'll be a hundred people on watch."
"Have you called out the militia?" she asked, twinkling.
"Better than that. I've employed the tools of my trade."
He handed her a galley proof marked with many corrections. She ranthrough it with growing amazement.
HAVE YOU SEEN THE DOG?
$100-One Hundred Dollars-$100 FOR THE BEST ANSWER IN 500 WORDS
OPEN TO ALL HIGH SCHOOL BOYS
Between now and next Saturday an old Pug Dog will come out of a big House on West 16th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues. It may be by Day. It may be at any hour of the Night. Now, you Boys, get to work.
REMEMBER: $100 IN CASH
HERE ARE THE POINTS TO MIND-- 1. Description of the Dog. 2. Description of Person with him. 3. Description of House he Comes from. 4. Account of Where they Go. 5. Account of What they Do.
Manuscripts must be written plainly and mailed within twenty-four hours of the discovery of the dog to
A. JONES: AD-VISOR ASTOR COURT TEMPLE, NEW YORK
"That will appear in every New York paper tomorrow morning," explainedits deviser.
"I see," said the girl. "Any one who attempts to take Peter Paul awaywill be tracked by a band of boy detectives. A stroke of genius, Mr.Average. Jones."
She curtsied low to him. But Average Jones was in no mood forplayfulness now.
"That restricts the judge's endeavors to the house and garden," said he,"since, of course he'll see the advertisement."
"I'll see that he does," said Miss Graham maliciously.
"Good! I'll also ask you to watch the garden for any suspiciousexcavating."
"Very well. But is that all?" Miss Graham's voice was wistful.
"Isn't it enough?"
"You've been so good to me," she said hesitantly. "I don't like to thinkof you as setting those boys to an impossible task."
"Oh, bless you!" returned the Ad-Visor heartily; "that's all arrangedfor. One of my men will duly parade with a canine especially obtainedfor the occasion. I'm not going to swindle the youngsters."
"It didn't seem like you," returned Miss Graham warmly. "But you mustlet me pay for it, that and the advertising bill."
"As an unauthorized expense--" he began.
She laid a small, persuasive hand on his arm.
"You must let me pay it. Won't you?"
Average Jones was conscious of a strange sensation, starting fromthe point where the firm, little hand lay. It spread in his veins andthickened his speech.
"Of course," he drawled, uncertainly, "if you--er--put it--er--thatway!"
The hand lifted. "Mr. Average Jones," said the owner, "do you know youhaven't once disappointed me in speech or action during our short butrather eventful acquaintance?"
"I hope you'll be able to say the same ten years from now," he returnedsignificantly.
She flushed a little at the implication. "What am I to do next?" sheasked.
"Do as you would ordinarily do; only don't take Peter Paul, intothe street, or you'll have a score of high-school boys trailing you.And--this is the most important--if the dog fails to answer your call atany time, and you can't readily find him by searching, telephone me, atonce, at my office. Good-by."
"I think you are a very staunch friend to those who need you," she said,gravely and sweetly, giving him her hand.
She clung in his mind like a remembered fragrance, after he had goneback to Astor Court Temple to wait. And though he plunged into anintricate scheme of political advertising which was to launch a newlocal party, her eyes and her voice haunted him. Nor had he banishedthem, when, two days later, the telephone brought him her clear accents,a little tremulous now.
"Peter Paul is gone."
"Since when?"
"Since ten this morning. The house is in an uproar."
"I'll be up in half an hour at the latest."
"Do come quickly. I'm--I'm a little frightened."
"Then you must have something to do," said Average Jones decisively."Have you been keeping an eye on the garden?"
"Yes."
"Go through it again, looking carefully for signs of disarranged earth.I don't think you'll find it, but it's well to be sure. Let me in at thebasement door at half-past one. Judge Ackroyd mustn't see me."
It was a strangely misshapen presentation of the normally spick-and-spanAverage Jones that gently rang the basement bell of the old house at thespecified hour. All his pockets bulged with lumpy angles. Immediately,upon being admitted by Miss Graham herself, he proceeded to disenburdenhimself of box after box, such as elastic bands come in, all exhibitinga homogeneous peculiarity, a hole at one end thinly covered with agelatinous substance.
"Be very careful not to let that get broken," he instructed themystified girl. "In the course of an hour or so it will melt awayitself. Did you see anything suspicious in the garden?"
"No!" replied the girl. She picked up one of the boxes. "How odd!" shecried. "Why, there's something in it that's alive!"
"Very much so. Your friends, the beetles, in fact."
"What! Again? Aren't you carrying the joke rather far?"
"It's not a joke any more. It's deadly serious. I'm quite sure," heconcluded in the manner of one who picks his words carefully, "that itmay turn out to be just the most serious matter in the world to me."
"As bad as that?" she queried, but the color that flamed in her cheeksbelied the lightness of her tone.
"Quite. However, that must wait. Where is your uncle?"
"Up-stairs in his study."
"Do you think you could take me all through the house sometime thisafternoon without his seeing me?"
"No, I'm sure I couldn't. He's been wandering like an uneasy spiritsince Peter Paul disappeared. And he won't go out, because he ispacking."
"So much the worse, either for him or me. Where are your rooms?"
"On the second floor."
"Very well. Now, I want one of these little boxes left in every room inthe house, if possible, except on your floor, which is probably out ofthe reckoning. Do you think you could manage it soon?"
"I think so. I'll try."
"Do most of the rooms open into one another?"
"Yes, all through the house."
"Please see that they're all unlocked, and as far as possible, open.I'll be here at four o'clock, and will call for judge Ackroyd. Youmust be sure that he receives me. Tell him it is a matter of greatimportance. It is."
"You're putting a fearful strain on my feminine curiosity," said MissGraham, the provocative smile quirking at the comers of her mouth.
"Doubtless," returned the other dryly. "If you strictly followdirections, I'll undertake to satisfy it in ti
me. Four o'clock sharp,I'll be here. Don't be frightened whatever happens. You keep ready, butout of the way, until I call you. Good-by."
With even more than his usual nicety was Average Jones attired, when, atfour o'clock, he sent his card to judge Ackroyd. Small favor, however,did his appearance find, in the scowling eyes of the judge.
"What do you want?" he growled.
"I'll take a cigar, thank you very much," said Average Jones innocently.
"You'll take your leave, or state your business."
"It has to do with your niece."
"Then what do you take my time for, damn your impudence."
"Don't swear." Average Jones was deliberately provoking the older man toan outbreak. "Let's--er--sit down and--er--be chatty."
The drawl, actually an evidence of excitement, had all the effect ofstudied insolence. Judge Ackroyd's big frame shook.
"I'm going to k-k-kick you out into the street, you young p-p-p-pup," hestuttered in his rage.
His knotted fingers writhed out for a hold on the other's collar. Witha sinuous movement, the visitor swerved aside and struck the other man,flat-handed, across the face. There was an answering howl of demoniacfury. Then a strange thing happened. The assailant turned and fled, notto the ready egress of the front door, but down the dark stairway to thebasement. The judge thundered after, in maddened, unthinking pursuit.Average Jones ran fleetly and easily. And his running was not for thepurpose of flight alone, for as he sped through the basement rooms, hekept casting swift glances from side to side, and up and down the walls.The heavyweight pursuer could not get nearer than half a dozen paces.
From the kitchen Average Jones burst into the hallway, doubled back upthe stairs and made a tour of the big drawing-rooms and living-rooms ofthe first floor. Here, too, his glance swept room after room, from floorto ceiling. The chase then led upward to the second floor, and by directascent to the third. Breathing heavily, judge Ackroyd lumbered after themore active man. In his dogged rage, he never thought to stop and blockthe hall-way; but trailed his quarry like a bloodhound through everyroom of the third floor, and upward to the fourth. Half-way up thisstairway, Average Jones checked his speed and surveyed the hall above.As he started again he stumbled and sprawled. A more competent observerthan the infuriated pursuer might have noticed that he fell cunningly.But judge Ackroyd gave a shout of savage triumph and increased hisspeed. He stretched his hand to grip the fugitive. It had almost touchedhim when he leaped, to his feet and resumed his flight.
"I'll get you now!" panted the judge.
The fourth floor of the old house was almost bare. In a hall-embrasurehung a full-length mirror. All along the borders of this, Average Jones'quick ranging vision had discerned small red-banded objects which movedand shifted. As the glass reflected his extended figure, it showed,almost at the same instant, the outstretched, bony hand of "Oily"Ackroyd. With a snarl, half rage, half satisfaction, the pursuer hurledhimself forward--and fell, with a plunge that rattled the house's oldbones. For, as he reached, Jones, trained on many a foot-ball field, hadwhirled and dived at his knees. Before the fallen man could gather hisshaken wits, he was pinned with the most disabling grip known in thescience of combat, a strangle-hold with the assailant's wrist clampedin below and behind the ear. Average Jones lifted his voice and the namethat came to his lips was the name that had lurked subconsciously, inhis heart, for days.
"Sylvia!" he cried. "The fourth floor! Come!"
There was a stir and a cry from two floors below. Sylvia Graham hadbroken from the grasp of her terrified aunt, and now came up the sharpascent like a deer, her eyes blazing with resolve and courage.
"The mirror," said Average Jones. "Push it aside. Pull it down. Getbehind it somehow. Lie quiet, Ackroyd or I'll have to choke yourworthless head off."
With an effort of nervous strength, the girl lifted aside the big glass.Behind it a hundred scarlet banded insects swarmed and scampered.
"It's a panel. Open it."
She tugged at the woodwork with quick, clever fingers. A sectionloosened and fell outward with a bang. The red-and-black beetles fled inall directions. And now, judge Ackroyd found his voice.
"Help!" he roared. "Murder!"
The sinewy pressure of Average Jones' wrist smothered further attemptsat vocality to a gurgle. He looked up into Sylvia Graham's tense, face,and jerked his head toward the opening.
"Unless my little detectives have deceived me," he said, "you'll findthe body in there."
She groped, and drew forth a large box. In it was packed the body ofPeter Paul. There was a cord about the fat neck.
"Strangled," whispered the girl. "Poor old doggie!" Then she whirledupon the prostrate man. "You murderer!" she said very low.
"It's not murder to put a dying brute out of the way," said the shakenman sullenly.
"But it's fraud, in this case," retorted Average Jones. "A fraud ofwhich you're self-convicted. Get up." He himself rose and stepped back,but his eye was intent, and his muscles were in readiness.
There was no more fight in judge "Oily" Ackroyd. He slunk to the stairsand limped heavily down to his frightened and sobbing wife. Miss Grahamleaned against the wall, white and spent. Average Jones, his heart inhis eyes, took a step forward.
"No!" she said peremptorily. "Don't touch me. I shall be all right."
"Do you mind my saying," said he, very low, "that you are the bravestand finest human being I've met in a--a somewhat varied career."
The girl shuddered. "I could have stood it all," she said, "but forthose awful, crawling, red creatures."
"Those?" said Average Jones. "Why, they were my bloodhounds, my littledetectives. There's nothing very awful about those, Sylvia. They've donetheir work as nature gave 'em to do it. I knew that as soon as they gotout, they would find the trail."
"And what are they?"
"Carrion beetles," said Average Jones. "Where the vultures of the insectkingdom are gathered together, there the quarry lies."
Sylvia Graham drew a long breath. "I'm all right now," she pronounced."There's nothing left, I suppose, but to leave this house. And to thankyou. How am I ever to thank you?" She lifted her eyes to his.
"Never mind the thanks," said Average Jones unevenly. "It was nothing."
"It was everything! It was wonderful!" cried the girl, and held out herslender hands to him.
As they clasped warmly upon his, Average Jones' reason lost its balance.He forgot that he was in that house on an equivocal footing; he forgotthat he had exposed and disgraced Sylvia Graham's near relative; heforgot that this was but his third meeting with Sylvia Graham herself;he forgot everything except that the sum total of all that was sweetestand finest and most desirable in womanhood stood warm and vivid beforehim; and, bending over the little, clinging hands, he pressed his lipsto them. Only for a moment. The hands slipped from his. There was aquick, frightened gasp, and the girl's face, all aflush with a new,sweet fearfulness and wondering confusion, vanished behind a ponderousswinging door.
The young man's knees shook a little as he walked forward and put hislips close to the lintel.
"Sylvia."
There was a faint rustle from within.
"I'm sorry. I mean, I'm glad. Gladder than of anything I've ever done inmy life."
Silence from within.
"If I've frightened you, forgive me. I couldn't help it. It was strongerthan I. This isn't the place where I can tell you. Sylvia, I'm goingnow."
No answer.
"The work is done," he continued. "You won't need me any more." Did hehear, from within, a faint indrawn breath? "Not for any help that I cangive. But I--I shall need you always, and long for you. Listen, theremustn't be any misunderstanding about this, dear. If you send for me, itmust be because you want me; knowing that, when I come, I shall come foryou. Good-by, dear."
"Good-by." It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But it echoedin the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears in the whirlingbrain of Average Jones as he walked back to
his offices.
Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word nor signhad come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily as Simpsonentered the inner sanctum with the usual packet of clippings.
"Leave them," he ordered.
"Yes, sir." The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable."Anything from yesterday's lot, sir?"
"Haven't looked them over yet."
"Or day before's?"
"Haven't taken those up either."
"Pardon me, Mr. Jones., but--are you ill, sir?"
"No," snapped Average Jones.
"Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles. I see in thepaper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours' notice, soI suppose you won't want any more?"
Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson's beetles deeper thanthey had, ever digged for prey.
"Yes, Sir," assented Simpson. "But if I might suggest, there's a veryinteresting advertisement in yesterday's paper repeated this morn--"
"I don't want to see it."
"No, Sir. But--but still--it--it seems to have a strange referenceto the burial of the million-dollar dog, and an invitation that Ithought--"
"Where is it? Give it to me!" For once in his life, high pressure ofexcitement had blotted out Average Jones' drawl. His employee thrustinto his hand this announcement from the Banner of that morning:
DIED-At 100 West 26th Street, Sept. 14, Peter Paul, a dog, for many years the faithful and fond companion of the late Amelia Van Haltern. Burial in accordance with the wish and will of Mrs. Van Haltern, at the family estate, Schuylkill, Sept. 17, at o'clock. His friend, Don Quixote, is especially bidden to come, if he will.
Average Jones leaped to his feet. "My parable," he cried. "Don Quixoteand the damsel in distress. Where's my hat? Where's the time-table?Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn't you make me read this before,confound you! I mean God bless you. Your salary's doubled from to-day.I'm off."
"Yes, Sir," said the bewildered Simpson, "but about Ramson's beetles?"
"Tell him, to turn 'em out to pasture and keep 'em as long as they live,at my expense," called back Average Jones as the door slammed behindhim.
Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented withthe oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarab beetlered-banded with three deep-hued rubies.
"But, Average," she said, and the golden laughter flickered again in thebrown depths of her eyes, "not even you could expect a girl to accept aman through a keyhole."
"I suppose not," said Average Jones with a sigh of profoundest content."Some are for privacy in these matters; others for publicity. But Isuppose I'm the first man in history who ever got his heart's answer inan advertisement."
THE END
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