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Updated: May 5, 2025
Those are a book-maker's takings. The binocular is a racing-man's glass. Our late friend used the language of the track. I think we'll find him on page nine." "Try," said Waldemar, handing him a paper still spicy with the keen odor of printer's ink. Swiftly the Ad-Visor's practiced eye ran over the column.
But it was not in the Ad-Visor's character to quit an enterprise before it was wholly completed. So long as the two bandits were on their way to cash the young spendthrift's checks Jones had heard from the victim a brief account of the extortion success was not fully won. "We've got to get that money back," he said to Captain Funcke with conviction. The hunter made no reply in words.
One was to the Reverend Peter Prentice, the other was to the local chief of police. On the following afternoon Mr. Prentice trembling in the anteroom of the Ad-Visor's. With the briefest word of greeting Average Jones led him into his private office, where a clear-eyed boy, with his head swathed in bandages sat waiting.
His elbow was held close to his ribs in a peculiar manner. He was concealing something under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness, Average Jones stumbled against him in passing. Livius drew away, his high forehead working with suspicion. The Ad-Visor's expression of blank apology, eked out with a bow and a grimace, belied the busy-working mind within.
Bertram, his elegance undimmed by the first really trying weather of the early summer, drifted to the coolest spot in the Ad-Visor's sanctum and spread his languid length along a wicker settee. "Give a man breathing space, can't you?" returned Average Jones. "This is hotter than Baja California." "Why, I assumed that your quest of the quack's scion would have trained you down fit for anything."
Yet Fate might well have chosen a more appropriate ambush in any one of a hundred of the strange clippings which were grist to the Ad-Visor's mill. Out of a bulky pile of the day's paragraphs, however, it was this one that leaped, significant, to his eye. WANTED Ten thousand loathly black beetles, by A leaseholder who contracted to leave a house in the same condition as he found it.
But nowhere does the observer find any record of one of the Ad-Visor's most curious cases, running back two thousand years; for its owner keeps it in his desk drawer, whence the present chronicler exhumed it, by accident, one day.
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