As nearly as imperfect humanity may, Average Jones appeared to be smiling indulgently at the end of his own nose.
“Dare say you’re right—er—in part, Bert. But I’ve also a hunch that our man Robinson is himself the delusion as well as the object.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be cryptic, Average,” said his friend pathetically. “There’s been enough of that without your gratuitously adding to the sum of human bewilderment.”,
Average Jones scribbled a few words on a pad, considered, amended, and handed the result over to Bertram, who read:
WANTED—Professional envelope eraser to remove marks from used envelopes. Experience essential. Apply at once—A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple.”
“Would it enlighten your gloom to see that in every New York and Brooklyn paper to-morrow?” inquired its inventor.
“Not a glimmer.”
“We’ll give this ad a week’s repetition if necessary, before trying more roundabout measures. As soon as I have heard from it I’ll drop in at the club and we’ll write—that is to say, compose a letter.”
“To whom?”
“Oh, that I don’t know yet. When I do, you’ll see me.”