ating thrill of the occasional chase, the radiance
of the Adventure of Life glinting from time to time across his path.

There were few places, Average Jones held, where human nature in the
rough can be studied to better advantage than in the stifling tunnels of
the subway or the close-packed sardine boxes of the metropolitan surface
lines. It was in pursuance of this theory that he encountered the
Westerner, on Third avenue car. By custom, Average Jones picked out the
most interesting or unusual human being in any assembly where he found
himself, for study and analysis. This man was peculiar in that he alone
was not perspiring in the sodden August humidity. The clear-browned skin
and the rangy strength of the figure gave him a certain distinction. He
held in his sinewy hands a doubly folded newspaper. Presently it slipped
from his hold to the seat beside him. He stared at the window opposite
with harassed and unseeing eyes. Abruptly he rose and went out on the
platform. Average Jones picked up the paper. In the middle of the column
to which it was folded was a marked advertisement:

ARE you in an embarrassing position? Anything,
anywhere, any time, regardless of nature or location.
Everybody's friend. Consultation at all hours.
Suite 152, Owl Building, Brooklyn.

The car was nearing Brooklyn Bridge. Average Jones saw his man drop
lightly off. He followed and at the bridge entrance caught him up.

"You've left your paper," he said.

The stranger whirled quickly. "Right," he said. "Thanks. Perhaps you can
tell me where the Owl Building is."

"Are you going there?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't."

A slight wrinkle of surprise appeared on the man's tanned forehead.

"Perhaps you wouldn't," he returned coolly.

"In other words, 'mind your business,"' said Average Jones, with a
smile.

"Something of that sort," admitted the stranger.

"Nevertheless, I wouldn't consult with Everbody's Friend over in the Owl
Building."

"Er--because--er--if I may speak plainly," drawled Average Jones, "I
wouldn't risk a woman's name with a gang of blackmailers."

"You've got your nerve," retorted the stranger. The keen eyes,
flattening almost to slits, fixed on the impassive face of the other.

"Well, I'll go you," he decided, after a moment. His glance swept the
range of vision and settled upon a rathskeller sign. "Come over there
where we can talk."

They crossed the grilling roadway, and, being wise in the