, with the grim repression of the
thinker stirred to wrath, "should like to interview this stranger."

"Perfectly feasible, I think," returned Average Jones.

A long silence.

"You don't mean that you've located him already!" cried young Mr.
McIntyre.

"He was so obliging as to save me the trouble."

Average Jones held up the letter from which he had taken the Cairnside
Hospital's telephone number. "The advertisement worked to a charm. Mr.
Smith gives his address in this, and intimates that I may call upon
him."

Young Mr. McIntyre rose.

"You're going to see him, then?"

"At once."

"Did I understand you to imply that I am at liberty to accompany you?"
inquired Professor Gehren.

"If you care to take the risk."

"Think there'll be excitement?" asked Bertram languidly. "I'd like to go
along."

Average Jones nodded. "One or a dozen; I fancy it will be all the same
to Smith."

"You think we'll find him dead." Young Mr. McIntyre leaped to this
conclusion. "Count me in on it."

"N-no; not dead."

"Perhaps his friend 'Mercy' has gone back on him, then," suggested Mr.
McIntyre, unabashed.

"Yes; I rather think that's it," said Average Jones, in a curious
accent. "'Mercy' has gone back on him, I believe, though I can't quite
accurately place her as yet. Here's the taxi," he broke off. "All aboard
that's going aboard. But it's likely to be dangerous."

Across town and far up the East Side whizzed the car, over the bridge
that leads away from Manhattan Island to the north, and through quiet
streets as little known to the average New Yorker as are Hong Kong and
Caracas. In front of a frame house it stopped. On a side porch, over
which bright roses swarmed like children clambering into a hospitable
lap, sat a man with a gray face. He was tall and slender, and his hair,
a dingy black, was already showing worn streaks where the color had
faded. At Average Jones he gazed with unconcealed surprise.

"Ah; it is you!" he exclaimed. "You," he smiled, "are the 'Mercy' of the
advertisement?"

"Yes."

"And these gentlemen?"

"Are my friends."

"You will come in?"

Average Jones examined a nodding rose with an indulgent, almost a
paternal, expression.

"If you--er--think it--er--safe," he murmured.

"Assuredly."

As if exacting a pledge the young man held out his hand. The older one
unhesitatingly grasped it. Average Jones turned the long fingers, which
enclosed his, back upward, and glanced at them.