An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round and comfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all. Average Jones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly locust shells which cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found within a plump and prosperous beetle.
“Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this house, ma’am?” he inquired.
“Long ago,” said she.
“Am I too late, then?”
“Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never,” said the old lady with conviction, “seen such a frazzled lot of folks as B-flat trombone players.”
“The person who inserted the advertisement—?”
“Has left. A month since.”
“Could you tell where he went?”
“Left no address.”
“His name was Telford, wasn’t it?” said Average Jones strategically.