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"Would er young Hoff er perhaps keep a few er extra clothes there?" asked Average Jones, seemingly struggling with a yawn. The city editor stared. "Oh, I dare say. He used to end his sprees pretty much mussed up." "That would perhaps explain where the shirt came from," murmured the Ad-Visor. "Much obliged for the suggestion. I'll just step around."
In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed of by his trained assistants. To the advertising expert's offices had come that day but three cases difficult enough to be referred to the Ad-Visor himself. Two were rather intricate financial lures which Average Jones was able to dispose of by a mere "Don't."
When, only a moment before five, the Ad-Visor entered, the manner of his apology was more absent than fervent. Bertram held out a newspaper to him. "Cast your eye on that," said he. "The Register fairly reeks with freaks lately." Average Jones read aloud. SMITH-PERKINS, formerly 74 Bellair-Send map present location H. C. Turkish Triumph about smoked out. MERCY Box 34, Office.
"Finally, then, how could you know that Bailey was injured and unconscious?" "If he hadn't been unconscious then and for long after, he'd have revealed his identity to his captors, wouldn't he?" explained the Ad-Visor. There was a long pause. Then the woman said timidly: "Well, and now what?" "Nothing," answered Average Jones. "Tuxall has got away. Mr. Prentice has recovered his son.
"But he can send to the country and dig up plenty of red-and-black ones." "That will do," returned the Ad-Visor. "Tell him to have two or three hundred here to-morrow morning." Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. "Meaning that you're going to follow up this freak affair?" he inquired. "Just that. I can't explain why, but well, Bert, I've a hunch.
Other people's troubles had swarmed down upon him in answer to his advertised offer of help, as sparrows flock to scattered bread crumbs. Mostly these were of the lesser order of difficulties; but for what he gave in advice and help the Ad-Visor took payment in experience and knowledge of human nature.
"This sort of thing requires practice," he muttered. "Here, Bert, you're cleverer with your fingers than I. You take it, and I'll dictate." Between them, after several failures, they produced a fair copy of the following: "Mr. Alden Honeywell will choose between making explanation to the post-office authorities or calling at 3:30 P. m. to-morrow on A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple."
Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the huge book-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copious notes. Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered. But one morning the attitude seemed, to the listening Ad-Visor, to be reversed. Livius, in the far corner of the room, was speaking in a low tone.
And this swollen, smug-faced intruder looked a particularly offensive specimen of his kind. Therefore the Ad-Visor said curtly: "I can't take your case. Good day " "Not take it! Did you read the reward?" "Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker's touching confidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise it doesn't, interest me. Get some one else to find your young hopeful."
As the Ad-Visor closed the door after him, he heard the breathless, boyish "Hello, father," merged in the broken cry of the Reverend Peter Prentice. Five minutes he gave father and son. When he returned to the room, carrying a loose roll of reddish paper, he was followed by a strange couple. The woman was plumply muscular. Her attractive face was both defiant and uneasy.
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