Average Jones

THE ONE BEST BET

“Morrison has jammed the Personal Liberty bill through,” said Waldemar, scrawling a head on his completed editorial, with one eye on the clock, which pointed to midnight.

“That was to be expected, wasn’t it?” asked Average Jones.

“Oh, yes,” replied the editor-owner of the Universal in his heavy bass.  “And now the governor announces he will veto it.”

“Thereby bringing the whole power of the gambling ring down on him like an avalanche.”

“Naturally.  Morrison has declared open war against ‘Pharisee Phil,’ as he calls Governor Arthur.  Says he’ll pass the bill over his veto.  In his heart he knows he can’t do it.  Still, he’s a hard fighter.”

Average Jones tipped his chair back against the wall of the editorial sanctum.  “What do you suppose,” he inquired with an air of philosophic speculation, “that the devil will do with Carroll Morrison’s soul when he gets it?  Deodorize it?”

“Harsh words, young sir!  Harsh words and treasonable against one of our leading citizens; multimillionaire philanthropist, social leader, director of banks, insurance companies and railroads, and emperor of the race-track, the sport of kings.”

“The sport of kings-maintained on the spoils of clerks,” retorted Average Jones. “‘To improve the breed of horses,’ if you please!  To make thieves of men and harlots of women, because Carroll Morrison must have his gambling-game dividends!  And now he has our ‘representative’ legislature working for him to that honorable end!”

“Man to see you, Mr. Waldemar,” said an office boy, appearing at the door.

“Too late,” grunted the editor.

“He says it’s very particular, sir, and to tell you it’s something Mr. Morrison is interested in.”

“Morrison, eh?  All right.  Just step into the inner office, will you, Jones?  Leave the door open.  There might be something interesting.”

Hardly had Average Jones found a chair in the darkened office when the late caller appeared.  He was middle-aged, pursy, and dressed with slap-dash ostentation.  His face was bloated and seared with excesses.  But it was not intoxication that sweated on his forehead and quivered in his jaw.  It was terror.  He slumped into the waiting chair and mouthed mutely at the editor.

“Well?” The bullet-like snap of the interrogation stung the man into babbling speech.

“’S like this, Misser Wald’mar.  ’S like this.  Y-y-yuh see, ’s like this.  Fer Gawsake, kill out an ad for me!”

“What?  In to-morrow’s paper?  Nonsense!  You’re too late, even if I wished to do it.”

The visitor stood up and dug both hands into his side pockets.  He produced, first a binocular, which, with a snarl, he flung upon the floor.  Before it had stopped bumping, there fluttered down upon the seat of his chair a handful of greenbacks.  Another followed, and another, and another.  The bills toppled and spread, and some of them slid to the floor.  Still the man delved.

“There!” he panted at last.  “Money talks.  There’s the stuff.  Count it.  Eighteen hundred if there’s a dollar.  More likely two thou.  If that ain’t enough, make your own price.  I don’t care what it is.  Make it, Misser.  Put a price on it.”

There was something loathsome and obscene in the creature’s gibbering flux of words.  The editor leaned forward.

“Bribery, eh?” he inquired softly.

The man flinched from the tone.  “It ain’t bribery, is it, to ast you to rout out jus’ one line from an ad an’ pay you for the trouble.  My own ad, too.  If it runs, it’s my finish.  I was nutty when I wrote it.  Fer Gawsake, Misser—­”

“Stop it!  You say Morrison sent you here?”

“No, sir.  Not exac’ly.  ‘S like this, M’ Wald’mar.  I hadda get to you some way.  It’s important to Misser Morrison, too.  But he don’t know I come.  He don’t know nothing about it.  Oh, Gaw!  If he finds out—­”

“Put that money back in your pockets.”

With an ashen face of despair, the man obeyed.  As he finished, he began to sag at the joints.  Slowly he slackened down until he was on his knees, an abject spectacle of disgust.

“Stand up,” ordered Waldemar.

“Liss’n; liss’n t’ me,” moaned the man.  “I’ll make it three thousand.  Fi’ thou—­”

“Stand up!”

The editor’s hearty grip on his coat collar heaved the creature to his feet.  For a moment he struggled, panting, then spun, helpless and headlong from the room, striking heavily against the passage wall outside.  There was a half-choked groan; then his footsteps slumped away into silence.

“Ugh!” grunted Waldemar.  “Come back, Jones.”

Average Jones reentered.  “Have you no curiosity in your composition?” he asked.

“Not much—­having been reared in the newspaper business.”

Stooping, Average Jones picked up the glasses which the man had thrown on the floor and examined them carefully.  “Rather a fine instrument,” he observed.  “Marked N. K. I think I’ll follow up the owner.”

“You’ll never find him now.  He has too much start.”

“Not at all.  When a man is in his state of abject funk, it’s ten to one he lands at the nearest bar.  Wait for me.”

In fifteen minutes Average Jones was back.  There was a curious expression on his face as he nodded an assent to his friend’s inquiring eyebrows.

“Where?” asked Waldemar.

“On the floor of a Park Row saloon.”

“Dead drunk, eh?”

“No—­er; not—­er—­drunk.  Dead.”

Waldemar stiffened in his chair.  “Dead!” he repeated.

“Poison, probably.  The ad was his finish, as he said.  The next thing is to find it.”

“The first edition will be down any minute now.  But it’ll take some finding.  Why, counting ‘classified,’ we’re carrying fifteen hundred ads in every issue.  With no clue to the character of this one—­“’

“Plenty of clue,” said Average Jones suavely.  “You’ll find it on the sporting page, I think.”

“Judging from the man’s appearance?  Rather far-fetched, isn’t it?”

“Judging from a pair of very fine binoculars, a mention of Carroll Morrison’s name, and, principally, some two thousand dollars in a huge heap.”

“I don’t quite see where that leads.”

“No?  The bills must have been mostly ones and twos.  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.  It checked at the “offer” of a notorious firm of tipsters who advertised to sell “inside information” on the races to their patrons.  As a special lure, they were, on this day, letting the public in on a few particularly “good things” free.

“There you are,” said Average Jones, pointing out the advertisement.

To his astonishment, Waldemar noted that his friend’s indicatory finger shook a little.  Normally, Average Jones was the coolest and most controlled of men.

“Noble and Gale’s form ad,” he observed.  “I see nothing unusual in that.”

“Yet—­er—­I fancy it’s quite important—­er—­in its way.”

The editor stared.  “When you talk like a bored Britisher, Average,” he remarked, “there’s sure to be something in the air.  What is it?”

“Look at the last line.”

Again Waldemar turned to the paper. “‘One Best Bet,”’ he read.  “‘That the Pharisee will never finish.’  Well?”

“That the Pharisee will never finish,” repeated Average Jones.  “If the Pharisee is a horse, the line becomes absurd at once.  How could any one know that a horse would fail to finish in a race?  But if it—­er—­referred—­er—­to a man, an official known—­er—­as Pharisee Phil—­”

“Wait!” Waldemar had jumped to his feet.  A thrill, increasing and pulsating through the floor beneath them, shook the building.  The editor jumped for the telephone.

“Composing room; quick!  Give me the foreman.  Hello!  That you, Corrigan?  Stop the presses. . .  I don’t care if we miss every train in the country. . .  Don’t answer back.  This is Mr. Waldemar.  Stop the presses!”

The thrill waned and ceased.  At the telephone, Waldemar continued:  “Look up the Noble and Gale tip ad, page nine, column six.  Kill the last line, the One Best Bet. . .  Don’t ask me how.  Chisel it out.  Burn it out.  Dynamite it out.  But kill it.  After that’s done, print. . . .  Hello; Dan?  Send the sporting editor in here in a hurry.”

“Good work,” said Average Jones.  “They’ll never know how near their idea of removing Governor Arthur came to being boasted of in plain print.”

Waldemar took his huge head in his hands and rocked it gently.  “It’s on,” he said.  “And right-side-before.  Yet, it tries to tell me that a man, plotting to murder the governor, advertises the fact in my paper!  I’ll get a new head.”

“Keep that one for a while,” advised Average Jones.  “It may be better than you think.  Anyway, here’s the ad.  And down yonder is the dead man whom it killed when he failed to kill it.  So much is real.”

“And here’s Bendig,” said the other, as the sporting editor entered.  “Any such horse as ‘The Pharisee,’ Bendig?”

“No, sir.  I suppose you mean that Noble and Gale ad.  I saw it in proof.  Some of Nick Karboe’s funny work, I expect.”

“Nick Karboe; N. K.,” murmured Average Jones, laying a hand on the abandoned field glass.  “Who is this man Karboe, Mr. Bendig?”

“Junior partner of Noble and Gale.  He puts out their advertising.”

“Any connection whatever with Mr. Carroll Morrison?”

“Why, yes.  Before he went to pieces he used to be Mr. Morrison’s confidential man, and lately he’s been doing some lobbying for the association.  I understood he’d quit it again.”

“Quit what?” asked Waldemar.  “Drink?”

“Worse.  The white stuff.  Coke.”

Average Jones whistled softly.  “That explains it all,” he said.  “A cocaine fiend on a debauch becomes a mental and moral imbecile.  It would be perfectly in character that he should boast of a projected crime.”

“Very well,” said Waldemar, after the sporting editor had left, “but you don’t really connect Morrison with this?”

“Don’t I!  At least I propose to try.  See here, Waldemar; two months ago at a private dinner, Morrison made a speech in which he said that men who interfered with the rights of property, like Governor Arthur, were no better than anarchists and ought to be handled accordingly.  Therefore, I don’t think that a plan—­a safe one, of course—­to put ‘Pharisee Phil’ away would greatly disturb our friend’s distorted conscience.  You see, the governor has laid impious hands on Morrison’s holy of holies, the dividend.  By the way, where is Governor Arthur?”

“On the train for this city.  He’s to review the parade at the Harrisonia Centennial, and unveil the statute to-morrow night; that is, to-night, to be accurate.”

“A good opportunity,” murmured Average Jones.

“What!  In the sight of a hundred thousand people?”

“That might be the very core of the opportunity.  And at night.”

“If you feel certain, it’s a case for the police, isn’t it?”

“Hardly!  The gambling gang control the police, wholly.  They would destroy the trail at once.”

“Then why not warn the governor?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Suppose I make an appointment to take you to see him in the morning?”

This was agreed upon.  At ten o’clock Governor Arthur received them at his hotel, greeting Average Jones with flattering warmth.

“You’re the amateur detective who scared the Honorable William Linder out of the mayoralty nomination,” said he, shaking hands.  “What are you going to do to me?”

“Give you some racing news to read, Governor.”

The governor took the advertisement proof and read it carefully.  Characteristically, he then re-read it throughout.

“You think this is meant for me?” he asked, handing it back.

“I do.  You’re not exactly what one would call popular with the racing crowd, you know, Governor.”

“Mr. Morrison, in the politest manner in the world, has allowed me to surmise as much,” said the other, smiling broadly.  “A very polished person, Mr. Morrison.  He can make threats of extinction—­political, of course—­more delicately than any other subtle blackmailer I have ever met.  And I have met several in my time.”

“If this were merely political extinction, which I fancy you can take care of yourself, I shouldn’t be taking up your time, sir.”

“My dear Jones—­” a friendly hand fell on the visitor’s shoulder—­“I gravely fear that you lack the judicial mind.  It’s a great thing to lack—­at times.”  Governor Arthur’s eyes twinkled again, and his visitor wondered whence had come his reputation as a dry, unhumorous man.  “As to assassination,” he pursued, “I’m a sort of Christian Scientist.  The best protection is a profound conviction that you’re safe.  That reacts on the mind of any would-be assassin.  To my mind, my best chance of safety lies in never thinking of danger.”

“Then,” said Waldemar, “any attempt to persuade you against appearing at Harrisonia to-night would be time wasted.”

“Absolutely, my dear Waldemar.  But don’t think that I’m not appreciative of your thoughtfulness and that of Mr. Jones.”

“What is the program of the day, Governor?” asked Average Jones.

“Rather a theatrical one.  I’m to ride along Harrison Avenue to the reviewing stand, in the old coach-of-state of the Harrison family, a lofty old ark, high as a circus wagon, which has been patched up for the occasion.  Just before I reach the reviewing stand, a silk cord is to be handed to me and I am to pull the veil from the great civic statue with that, as, I move on.”

“Then I think that Mr. Waldemar and I will look the ground over.  Could we get you by telephone, sir, if necessary?”

“Any time up to seven o’clock.”

“What do you think of the chance of their passing the bill over your veto?” asked Waldemar.

“They are spending money as it has never been spent before,” replied Governor Arthur.  “I’ll admit to you, Waldemar, that if I could find any legitimate method of calling Morrison off, I would not scruple to use it.  It is, of course, Morrison’s money that we are fighting.”

“Possibly—­er—­that, too—­er—­might be done,” drawled Average Jones.

The governor looked at him sharply.  “After the Linder affair, Mr. Jones,” said he, “I would follow you far.  Call my secretary at any time, if you want me.”

“Now to look over the line of parade,” said Average Jones as he and Waldemar emerged from the hotel.

Half an hour’s ride brought them to the lively suburban city of Harrisonia, gay with flags and bunting.  From the railroad station, where the guest of honor was to be met by the old coach, to the spot where the civic statue awaited its unveiling at his hands, was about half a mile along Harrison Avenue, the principal street.  The walk along this street developed nothing of interest to Average Jones until they reached the statue.  Here he paused to look curiously at a number of square platforms built out from windows in the business blocks.

“For flash-light outfits,” explained Waldemar.  “One of them is our paper’s.”

“Flash-lights, eh?” said Average Jones.  “And there’ll be fireworks and the air will be full of light and noise, under cover of which almost anything might be done.  I don’t like it!  Hello!  What’s here?”

He turned to the glass front of a prosperous-looking cigar store on the south side of the avenue and pointed to a shattered hole in the window.  Behind it a bullet swung on a thread from the ceiling, and this agent of disaster the proprietor had ingeniously turned to account in advertising, by the following placard: 

                       AIM lower
       If you expect to shoot holes in our prices. 
               We CHALLENGE our COMPETITION

“Not bad,” approved Average Jones.  “I feel a great yearning to smoke—­”

They entered the store and were served by the proprietor.  As he was making change, Average Jones asked: 

“When was the bombardment?”

“Night before last, some time,” replied the man.

“Done by a deflected bullet, wasn’t it?”

“Haven’t any idea how it was done or why.  I got here in the morning and there she was.  What makes you think it was a deflected bullet?”

“Because it was whirling end-over.  Normally, a bullet bores a pretty clean hole in plate glass.”

“That’s so, too,” agreed the man with some interest.

Average Jones handed a cigar to Waldemar and lighted one himself.  Puffing at it as he walked to the door, he gazed casually around and finally centered his attention on a telegraph pole standing on the edge of the sidewalk.  He even walked out and around the pole.  Returning, he remarked to the tobacconist: 

“Very good cigars, these.  Ever advertise ’em?”

“Sure.”  The man displayed a tin square vaunting the virtues of his “Camarados.”

“Outside the shop, I meant.  Why wouldn’t one of those signs look good on that telegraph pole?”

“It would look good to me,” said the vendor, “but it wouldn’t look good to the telegraph people.  They’d have it down.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Give me one, lend me a ladder, and I’ll make the experiment.”

The tobacconist stared.  “All right,” he said.  “Go as far as you like.”  And he got the required articles for his customer.

With silent curiosity Waldemar watched Average Jones place the ladder against the outside of the pole, mount, nail up the sign, drop a plumb-line, improvised from a key and a length of string, to the ground, set a careful knot in the string and return to earth.

“What did you find?” asked the editor.

“Four holes that you could cover with a silver dollar.  Some gunnery, that!”

“Then how did the other shot happen to go so far wrong.”

“Do you see that steel work over there?”

Average Jones pointed across to the north side of the street, just opposite, where a number of buildings had been torn down to permit of the erection of a new one.  The frame had risen three stories, and through the open spaces in the gaunt skeleton the rear of the houses facing on the street next northward could be seen.  Waldemar indicated that he did see the edifice pointed out by Average Jones.

“The bullet came from back of that—­perhaps from the next street.  They sighted by the telegraph pole.  Suppose, now, a man riding in a high coach passes along this avenue between the pole and the gun operator, over yonder to the northward.  Every one of the bullets which hit the pole would have gone right through his body.  Probably a fixed gun.  As for the wide shot, we’ll see.”

As he spoke, the Ad-Visor was leading the way across the street.  With upturned face he carefully studied the steel joists from end to end.  Presently he pointed.  Following the line of his finger, Waldemar saw a raw scar on the under side of one of the joists.

“There it is,” said Average Jones.  “The sights were a trifle off at the first shot, and the bullet ticked the steel and deflected.”

“So far, so good,” approved Waldemar.

“I can approximate the height of the steel beam from the ground, close enough for a trial formula,” continued Average Jones.  “Now, Waldemar, I call your attention to that restaurant on the opposite corner.”

Waldemar conned the designated building with attention.  “Well,” he said finally, “what of it?  I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

“Precisely my point,” returned the Ad-Visor with a grin.  “Neither do I. Therefore, suppose you go there and order luncheon for two, while I walk down to the next block and back again.  I’ll be with you in four minutes.”

He was somewhat better than his word.  Dropping into the chair opposite his friend, he figured swiftly and briefly on the back of an envelope, which he returned to his pocket.

“I suppose you’ve done a vast amount of investigating since you left me,” remarked the editor sardonically.  “Meanwhile, the plot to murder the governor goes merrily on.”

“I’ve done a fair amount of pacing over distance,” retorted Average Jones imperturbably.  “As for the governor, they can’t kill him till he comes, can they?  Besides, there’s plenty of time for them to change their minds.  As a result of my little constitutional just now, and a simple exercise in mathematics, you and I will call at a house on Spencer Street, the next street north, after luncheon.”

“What house?”

“Ah! that I don’t know, as yet.  We’ll see when we get there.”

Comfortably fed, the two strolled up to Spencer Street and turned into it, Average Jones eying the upper windows of the houses.  He stopped in front of an old-fashioned frame structure, which was built on a different plan of floor level from its smaller neighbors of brick.  Up the low steps went Jones, followed by the editor.  An aged lady, of the species commonly, conjectured as “maiden,” opened the door.

“Madam,” said Average Jones, “could we rent your third floor rear for this evening?”

“No, sir,” said she.  “It’s rented.”

“Perhaps I could buy the renters off,” suggested Jones.  “Could I see them?”

“Both out,” she answered shortly.  “And I don’t believe you could get the room from them, for they’re all fixed up to take photographs of the parade.”

“Indee-ee-eed,” drawled Average Jones, in accents so prolonged, even for him, that Waldemar’s interest flamed within him.  “I—­er—­ra—­ra-aather hoped—­er—­when do you expect them back?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Thank you.  Please tell them that—­er—­Mr. Nick Karboe called.”

“For heaven’s sake, Average,” rumbled Waldemar, as they regained the pavement, “why did you use the dead man’s name?  It gave me a shiver.”

“It’ll give them a worse one,” replied the Ad-Visor grimly.  “I want to prepare their nerves for a subsequent shock.  If you’ll meet me here this evening at seven, I think I can promise you a queer spectacle.”

“And meantime?”

“On that point I want your advice.  Shall we make a sure catch of two hired assassins who don’t amount to much, or take a chance at the bigger game?”

“Meaning Morrison?”

“Meaning Morrison.  Incidentally, if we get him we’ll be able to kill the Personal Liberty bill so dead it will never raise its head again.”

“Then I’m for that course,” decided the editor, after a little consideration, “though I can’t yet make myself believe that Carroll Morrison is party to a deliberate murder plot.”

“How the normal mind does shrink from connecting crime with good clothes and a social position!” remarked the Ad-Visor.  “Just give me a moment’s time.”

The moment he spent jotting down words on a bit of paper, which, after some emendation, he put away.

“That’ll do for a heading,” he remarked.  “Now, Waldemar, I want you to get the governor on the ’phone and tell him, if he’ll follow directions, we’ll put the personal liberty bill where the wicked cease from troubling.  Morrison is to be in the reviewing stand, isn’t he?”

“Yes; there’s a special place reserved for him, next the press seats.”

“Good!  By the way, you’d better send for two press seats for you and myself.  Now, what I want:  the governor to do is this:  get a copy of the Harrisonia Evening Bell, fold it to an advertisement headed ‘Offer to Photographers,’ and as he passes Carroll Morrison on the stand, hold it up and say to him just this:  ’Better luck next time.’  For anything further, I’ll see you in the reviewing stand.  Do you think he’ll do it?”

“It sounds as foolish as a college initiation stunt.  Still, you heard what Governor Arthur said about his confidence in you.  But what is this advertisement?”

“As yet, it isn’t.  But it will be, as soon as I can get to the office of the Bell.  You’ll meet me on this corner at seven o’clock, then?”

“Yes.  Meantime, to be safe, I’ll look after the reviewing stand tickets myself.”

At the hour named, the editor arrived.  Average Jones was already there, accompanied by a messenger boy.  The boy wore the cheerful grin of one who has met with an unexpected favor of fortune.

“They’ve returned, both of ’em,” said Average Jones as Waldemar approached.  “What about the governor?”

“It took a mighty lot of persuasion, but he’ll do it,” replied the editor.

“Skip, son,” said the Ad-Visor, handing the messenger boy a folded newspaper.  “The two gentlemen on the third floor rear.  And be sure you say that it’s a personal, marked copy.”

The boy crossed the street and entered the house.  In two minutes he emerged, nodded to Average Jones and walked away.  Five minutes passed.  Then the front door opened cautiously and a tall, evil-looking man slunk into the vestibule.  A second man followed him.  They glanced eagerly from left to right.  Average Jones stepped out to the curb-stone.

“Here’s the message from Karboe,” he called.

“My God!” gasped the tall man.

For an instant he made as if to turn back.  Then, clearing the steps at one jump, he stumbled, sprawled, was up again instantly and speeding up the street, away from Average Jones, turned the corner neck and neck with his companion who, running powerfully, had overtaken him.

The door of the house stood ajar.  Before Waldemar had recovered from his surprise, Average Jones was inside the house.  Hesitation beset the editor.  Should he follow or wait?  He paused, one foot on the step.  A loud crash within resolved his doubts.  Up he started, when the voice of Average Jones in colloquy with the woman who had received them before, checked him.  The colloquy seemed excited but peaceful.  Presently Average Jones came down the steps.

“They left the ad,” said he.  “Have you seen it?”

“No; I hadn’t time to get a paper,” replied Waldemar, taking the copy extended to him and reading in large display: 

     Offer to Photographers

$1,000 Reward for Special, Flash-light Photo of Governor Arthur in To-night’s Pageant.  Must be Taken According to Plans and Specifications Designated by the Late Nick Karboe.  Apply to A. Jones, Ad-Visor.  Astor Court Temple, New York City.

“No wonder they ran,” said Waldemar with a grin, as he digested this document.

“And so must we if we’re to get through the crowd and reach the reviewing stand,” warned Average Jones, glancing at his watch.

Their seats, which they attained with some difficulty, were within a few feet of the governor’s box.  Within reach of them sat Carroll Morrison, his long, pale, black-bearded face set in that immobility to which he had schooled it.  But the cold eyes roved restlessly and the little muscles at the corners of the lips twitched.

“Tell me that he isn’t in on the game!” whispered Average Jones, and Waldemar nodded.

The sound of music from down the street turned all faces in that direction.  A roar of cheering swept toward them and was taken up in the stands.  The governor, in his high coach, came in sight.  And, at that moment, terror struck into the soul of Waldemar.

“Suppose they came back!” he whispered to Average Jones.  “We’ve left the house unguarded.”

“I’ve fixed that,” replied the Ad-Visor in the same tone.  “Watch Morrison!”

Governor Arthur approached the civic statue.  An official, running out to the coach, handed him a silken cord, which he secured with a turn around the wrist.  The coach rolled on.  The cord tautened; the swathings sundered and fell from the gleaming splendor of marble, and a blinding flash, followed by another, and a third, blotted out the scene in unbearable radiance.

Involuntarily Morrison, like thousands of others, had screened his sight with his hands after the second flash.  Now, as the kindlier light returned, he half rose, rubbing his eyes furiously.  A half-groan escaped him.  He sank back, staring in amaze.  For Governor Arthur was riding on, calm and smiling amid the shouts.

Morrison shrank.  Could it be that the governor’s eyes were fixed on his?  He strove to shake off the delusion.  He felt, rather than saw, the guest of honor descend from the coach; felt rather than saw him making straight toward himself; and he winced and quivered at the sound of his own name.

“Mr. Morrison,” the governor was saying, at his elbow, “Mr. Morrison, here is a paper that may interest you.  Better luck next time.”

Morrison strove to reply.  His voice clucked in his throat, and the hand with which he took the folded newspaper was as the hand of a paralytic.

“He’s broken,” whispered Average Jones.

He went straight to Governor Arthur, speaking in his ear.  The governor nodded.  Average Jones returned to his seat to watch Carroll Morrison who, sat, with hell-fires of fear scorching him, until the last band had blared its way into silence.

Again the governor was speaking to him.

“’Mr. Morrison, I want you to visit a house near here.  Mr. Jones and Mr. Waldemar will come along; you know them, perhaps.  Please don’t protest.  I positively will not take a refusal.  We have a motor-car waiting.”

Furious, but not daring to refuse, Morrison found himself whirled swiftly away, and after a few turns to shake off the crowd, into Spencer Street.  With his captors, he mounted to the third floor of an old frame house.  The rear room door had been broken in.  Inside stood a strange instrument, resembling a large camera, which had once stood upright on a steel tripod riveted to the floor.  The legs of the tripod were twisted and bent.  A half-demolished chair near by suggested the agency of destruction.

“Just to render it harmless,” explained Average Jones.  “It formerly pointed through that window, so that a bullet from the barrel would strike that pole way yonder in Harrison Street, after first passing through any intervening body.  Yours, for instance, Governor.”

“Do I understand that this is a gun, Mr. Jones,” asked that official.

“Of a sort,” replied the Ad-Visor, opening up the camera-box and showing a large barrel superimposed on a smaller one.  “This is a sighting-glass,” he explained, tapping the larger barrel.  “And this,” tapping the smaller, “carries a small but efficient bullet.  This curious sheath”—­he pointed to a cylindrical jacket around part of the rifle barrel—­“is a Coulomb silencer, which reduces a small-arm report almost to a whisper.  Here is an electric button which was connected with yonder battery before I operated on it with the chair, and distributed its spark, part to the gun, part to the flash-light powder on this little shelf.  Do you see the plan now?  The instant that the governor, riding through the street yonder, is sighted through this glass, the operator presses the button, and flash-light and bullet go off instantaneously.”

“But why the flash-light?” asked the governor.

“Merely a blind to fool the landlady and avert any possible suspicion.  They had told her that they had a new invention to take flash-lights at a distance.  Amidst the other flashes, this one wouldn’t be noticed particularly.  They had covered their trail well.”

“Well, indeed,” said the governor.  “May I congratulate you, Mr. Morrison, on this interesting achievement in ballistics?”

“As there is no way of properly resenting an insult from a man in your position,” said Morrison venomously, “I will reserve my answer to that outrageous suggestion.”

“Meantime,” put in Average Jones, “let me direct your attention to a simple mathematical formula.”  He drew from his pocket an envelope on which were drawn some angles, subjoined by a formula.  Morrison waved it aside.

“Not interested in mathematics?” asked Average Jones solicitously.  “Very well, I’ll elucidate informally.  Given a bullet hole in a telegraph pole at a certain distance, a bullet scar on an iron girder at a certain lesser distance, and the length of a block from here to Harrison Avenue—­which I paced off while you were skillfully ordering luncheon, Waldemar—­and an easy triangulation brings us direct to this room and to two fugitive gentlemen with whom I mention the hypothesis with all deference, Mr. Morrison, you are probably acquainted.”

“And who may they have been?” retorted Morrison contemptuously.

“I don’t know,” said Average Jones.

“Then, sir,” retorted the racing king, “your hypothesis is as impudent as your company is intolerable.  Have you anything further to say to me?”

“Yes.  It would greatly please Mr. Waldemar to publish in to-morrow’s paper an authorized statement from you to the effect that the Personal Liberty bill will be withdrawn permanently.”

“Mr. Waldemar may go to the devil.  I have endured all the hectoring I propose to.  Men in my position are targets for muckrakers and blackmailers—­”

“Wait a moment,” Waldemar’s heavy voice broke in.  “You speak of men in your position.  Do you understand just what position you are in at present?”

Morrison rose.  “Governor Arthur,” he said with with stony dignity, “I bid you good evening.”

Waldemar set his bulky back against the door.  The lips drew back from Morrison’s strong teeth with the snarl of an animal in the fury and terror of approaching peril.

“Do you know Nick Karboe?”

Morrison whirled about to face Average Jones.  But he did not answer the question.  He only stared.

“Carroll Morrison,” continued Average Jones in his quiet drawl, “the half-hour before he—­er—­committed suicide—­er—­Nick Karboe spent in the office of the—­er—­Universal with Mr. Waldemar and—­er—­myself.  Catch him, Waldemar!”

For Morrison had wilted.  They propped him against the wall and he, the man who had insolently defied the laws of a great commonwealth, who had bribed legislatures and bossed judges and browbeaten the public, slobbered, denied and begged.  For two disgustful minutes they extracted from him his solemn promise that henceforth he would keep his hands off the laws.  Then they turned him out.

“Suppose you enlighten me with the story, gentlemen,” suggested the governor.

Average Jones told it, simply and modestly.  At the conclusion, Governor Arthur looked from the wrecked camera-gun to the mathematical formula which had fallen to the floor.

“Mr. Jones,” he said, “you’ve done me the service of saving my life; you’ve done the public the service of killing a vicious bill.  I wish I could thank you more publicly than this.”

“Thank you, Governor,” said Average’ Jones modestly.  “But I owed the public something, you know, on account of, my uncle, the late Mayor Van Reypen.”

Governor Arthur nodded.  “The debt is paid,” he said.  “That knowledge must be your reward; that and the consciousness of having worked out a remarkable and original problem.”

“Original?” said Average Jones, eying the diagram on the envelope’s back, with his quaint smile.  “Why, Governor, you’re giving me too much credit.  It was worked out by one of the greatest detectives of all time, some two thousand years ago.  His name was Euclid.”