nds of
mine whom she visits."

"Well, if you've only heard of her and not seen her," returned Bertram,
with something as nearly resembling enthusiasm as his habitual languor
permitted, "you've got something to look forward to. Sylvia Graham is a
distinct asset to the Scheme of Creation."

"An asset with assets of her own, I believe," said Average Jones. "The
million dollars left by her grandmother, old Mrs. Van Haltern, goes to
her eventually; doesn't it?"

"Provided she carries out the terms of the will, keeps the dog in proper
luxury and buries him in the grave on the family estate at Schuylkill
designated by the testator. If these terms are not rigidly carried out,
the fortune is to be divided, most of it going to Mrs. Hawley Ackroyd,
which would mean the judge himself. I should say that the dog was as
good as sausage meat if 'Oily' ever gets hold of him."

"H'm. What about Mrs. Ackroyd?"

"Poor, sickly, frightened lady! She's very fond of Sylvia Graham, who is
her niece. But she's completely dominated by her husband."

"Information is your long suit, Bert. Now, if you only had intelligence
to correspond--" Average Jones broke off and grinned mildly, first at
his friend, then at the advertisement.

Bertram caught up the paper and studied it. "Well, what does it mean?"
he demanded.

"It means that Ackroyd, being about to give up his rented house, intends
to saddle it with a bad name. Probably he's had a row with the agent or
owner, and is getting even by making the place difficult to rent again.
Nobody wants to take a house with the reputation of an entomological
resort."

"It would be just like Oily Ackroyd," remarked Bertram. "He's a
vindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poor devil
of a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed to keep it out
of the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine."

"That might be worth looking up, too," ruminated Average Jones
thoughtfully.

He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. "All right, come, in,
Simpson," he said.

The confidential clerk appeared. "Ramson says that regular black beetles
are out of season, sir," he reported. "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