that. I can't explain why, but--well, Bert, I've a hunch. At
the worst, Ackroyd's face when he sees the beetles should be worth the
money."

"When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you, look
out for Ackroyd. He's as big as he is ugly; a tough customer."

"All right. I'll just put on some old clothes, to dress the part of a
beetle-purveyor correctly, and also in case I get 'em torn in my meeting
with judge 'Oily.' I'll see you later--and report, if I survive his
wrath."

Thus it was that, on the morning after this dialogue, a clean-built
young fellow walked along West Sixteenth Street, appreciatively sniffing
the sunny crispness of the May air. He was rather shabby looking, yet
his demeanor was by no means shabby. It was confident and easy. On the
evidence of the bandbox which he carried, his mission should have
been menial; but he bore himself wholly unlike one subdued to petty
employments. His steady, gray eyes showed a glint of anticipation as
he turned in at the gate of the high, broad, brown house standing back,
aloof and indignant, from the roaring encroachments of trade. He set his
burden down and, pulled the bell.

The door opened promptly to the deep, far-away clangor. A flashing
impression of girlish freshness, vigor, and grace was disclosed to the
caller against a background of interior gloom. He stared a little more
patently than was polite. Whatever his expectation of amusement, this,
evidently, was not the manifestation looked for. The girl glanced not at
him, but at the box, and spoke a trifle impatiently.

"If it's my hat, it's very late. You should have gone to the basement."

"It isn't, miss," said the young man, in a form of address, the
semi-servility of which seemed distinctly out of tone with the quietly
clear and assured voice. "It's the insects."

"The what?"'

"The bugs, miss."'

He extracted from his pocket a slip of paper, looked from it to the
numbered door, as one verifying an address, and handed it to her.

"From yesterday's copy of the Banner, miss. You're not going back on
that, surely," he said somewhat reproachfully.

She read, and as she read her eyes widened to lakes of limpid brown.
Then they crinkled at the corners, and her laugh rose from the mid-tone
contralto, to a high, bird-like trill of joyousness. The infection of it
tugged at the young man's throat, but he successfully preserved his mask
of flat and respectful dullness.

"It must have been