“Not at all. When a man is in his state of abject funk, it’s ten to one he lands at the nearest bar. Wait for me.”
In fifteen minutes Average Jones was back. There was a curious expression on his face as he nodded an assent to his friend’s inquiring eyebrows.
“Where?” asked Waldemar.
“On the floor of a Park Row saloon.”
“Dead drunk, eh?”
“No—er; not—er—drunk. Dead.”
Waldemar stiffened in his chair. “Dead!” he repeated.
“Poison, probably. The ad was his finish, as he said. The next thing is to find it.”
“The first edition will be down any minute now. But it’ll take some finding. Why, counting ‘classified,’ we’re carrying fifteen hundred ads in every issue. With no clue to the character of this one—”
“Plenty of clue,” said Average Jones suavely. “You’ll find it on the sporting page, I think.”