“Yes, and you, Mr. Detective-man,” said the woman, as he paused. “What do you get out of it?”
Average Jones cast an affectionate glance at the sprawling legend which disfigured his floor.
“A unique curio in my own special line,” he replied. “An ad which never has been published and never will be. That’s enough for me.”
There was a double knock at the door, and Mr. Algernon Spofford burst in, wearing a face of gloom.
“Say, Average,” he began, but broke off with a snort of amazement. “You’ve found him!” cried. “Hello, Mr. Prentice. Well, Bailey, alive and kicking, eh?”
“Yes; I’ve found him and them,” replied Average Jones.
“You’ve done better than me, then. I’ve been through the post-office department from the information window here to the postmaster-general in Washington, and nobody’ll help me find Mortimer Morley.”
“Then let me introduce him; Algy, this is Mortimer Morley; in less private life Mr. Tim Farley, and his wife, Mrs. Farley, Mr. Spofford.”
“Well, I’ll be Billy-be-dashed,” exploded Mr. Spofford. “How did you work it out, Average?”
“On the previously enunciated principle,” returned Average Jones with a smile, “that when rats leave a sinking ship or a burning building there’s usually something behind, worth investigating.”