e chemist.

"Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs," returned
Average Jones. "Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I'll have
some mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a plumber
solder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of dynamite can get
through it."

Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer of luna
moths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came in
by, every mail, responding variously with fervor, suspicion, yearning
eagerness, and bitter skepticism to Average Jones' advertisement. All
of these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And each
day he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with the
directory of occupants of the Stengel Building. Less than a week after
the luna moth advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into Malcolm
Dorr's office with a twinkle in his eye.

"Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?" he asked the chemist.

"Never heard of him."

"Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the rest
of the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater Apartments,
where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building.
Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he is one of the
confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat Company. Do you see?"

"I begin," replied young Mr. Dorr.

"It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor above,
to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting work late
at night when the elevator had stopped running and--let us say--peep
through the keyhole."

Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean lines
of his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh.

"I don't know what you're going to do to Mr. Ross," he said, "but I want
to see him first."

"I'm not going to do anything to him," returned Average Jones, "because,
in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away, having noted,
doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis of the nerves. It's
strange how nervous your scientific murderer is. Anyway, Ross is only an
agent. I'm going to aim higher."

"As how?"

"Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare a peaceful
but murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his senses; second,
I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas; and third, I expect
to raise the street selling price of the even