whirling
brain of Average Jones as he walked back to his offices.

Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word nor sign
had come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily as Simpson
entered the inner sanctum with the usual packet of clippings.

"Leave them," he ordered.

"Yes, sir." The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable.
"Anything from yesterday's lot, sir?"

"Haven't looked them over yet."

"Or day before's?"

"Haven't taken those up either."

"Pardon me, Mr. Jones., but--are you ill, sir?"

"No," snapped Average Jones.

"Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles. I see in the
paper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours' notice, so
I suppose you won't want any more?"

Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson's beetles deeper than
they had, ever digged for prey.

"Yes, Sir," assented Simpson. "But if I might suggest, there's a very
interesting advertisement in yesterday's paper repeated this morn--"

"I don't want to see it."

"No, Sir. But--but still--it--it seems to have a strange reference
to the burial of the million-dollar dog, and an invitation that I
thought--"

"Where is it? Give it to me!" For once in his life, high pressure of
excitement had blotted out Average Jones' drawl. His employee thrust
into his hand this announcement from the Banner of that morning:

DIED-At 100 West 26th Street, Sept. 14,
Peter Paul, a dog, for many years the faithful
and fond companion of the late Amelia Van
Haltern. Burial in accordance with the wish
and will of Mrs. Van Haltern, at the family estate,
Schuylkill, Sept. 17, at o'clock. His friend, Don
Quixote, is especially bidden to come, if he will.

Average Jones leaped to his feet. "My parable," he cried. "Don Quixote
and the damsel in distress. Where's my hat? Where's the time-table?
Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn't you make me read this before,
confound you! I mean God bless you. Your salary's doubled from to-day.
I'm off."

"Yes, Sir," said the bewildered Simpson, "but about Ramson's beetles?"

"Tell him, to turn 'em out to pasture and keep 'em as long as they live,
at my expense," called back Average Jones as the door slammed behind
him.

Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented with
the oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarab beetle
red-banded with three deep-hued rubies.

"Bu