?" asked Miss Graham, the smile returning to her
lips. "Creepy, crawly bugs? Or imperiled dogs? Or rescuing prospectively
distressed damsels?"

"Technically it's advertising," replied Average Jones, who had been
formulating a shrewd little plan of his own. "Let me recommend to you
the advertising columns of the daily press. They're often amusing.
Moreover your uncle might break out in print again. Who knows?"

"Who, indeed? I'll read religiously."

"And, by the way, my beetles. I forgot and left them here. Oh, there's
the box. I may have a very specific use for them later. Au revoir--and
may it be soon!"

The two days succeeding seemed to Average Jones, haunted as he was by
an importunate craving to look again into Miss Graham's limpid and
changeful eyes, a dull and sodden period of probation. The messenger
boy who finally brought her expected note, looked to him like a Greek
godling. The note enclosed this clipping:

LOST-Pug dog answering to the name of Peter Paul.
Very old and asthmatic. Last seen on West 16th Street.
Liberal reward for information to Anxious. Care of Banner
office.

Dear Mr. Jones (she had written):

Are you a prophet? (Average Jones chuckled, at this point.) The enclosed
seems to be distinctly in our line. Could you come some time this
afternoon? I'm puzzled and a little anxious.

Sincerely yours,

Sylvia Graham.

Average Jones could, and did. He found Miss Graham's piquant face under
the stress of excitement, distinctly more alluring than before.

"Isn't it strange?" she said, holding out a hand in welcome. "Why should
any one advertise for my Peter Paul? He isn't lost."

"I am glad to hear that," said the caller gravely.

"I've kept my promise, you see," pursued the girl. "Can you do as well,
and live up to your profession of aid?"

"Try me."

"Very well, do you know what that advertisement means?"

"Perfectly."

"Then you're a very extraordinary person."

"Not in the least. I wrote it."

"Wrote it! You? Well--really! Why in the world did you write it?"

"Because of an unconquerable longing to see," Average Jones paused, and
his quick glance caught the storm signal in her eyes, "your uncle," he
concluded calmly.

For one fleeting instant a dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth.
It departed. But departing, it swept the storm before it.

"What do you want to see uncle about, if it isn't an impertinent
question?"

"It is, rather," returned th