“Judging from the man’s appearance? Rather far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“Judging from a pair of very fine binoculars, a mention of Carroll Morrison’s name, and, principally, some two thousand dollars in a huge heap.”
“I don’t quite see where that leads.”
“No? The bills must have been mostly ones and twos. Those are a book-maker’s takings. The binocular is a racing-man’s glass. Our late friend used the language of the track. I think we’ll find him on page nine.”
“Try,” said Waldemar, handing him a paper still spicy with the keen odor of printer’s ink.
Swiftly the Ad-Visor’s practiced eye ran over the column. It checked at the “offer” of a notorious firm of tipsters who advertised to sell “inside information” on the races to their patrons. As a special lure, they were, on this day, letting the public in on a few particularly “good things” free.
“There you are,” said Average Jones, pointing out the advertisement.
To his astonishment, Waldemar noted that his friend’s indicatory finger shook a little. Normally, Average Jones was the coolest and most controlled of men.
“Noble and Gale’s form ad,” he observed. “I see nothing unusual in that.”
“Yet—er—I fancy it’s quite important—er—in its way.”