Being wholly without imagination, the confidential clerk was impervious to surprise or shock. This was fortunate, for otherwise, his employment as practical aide to Average Jones would probably have driven him into a madhouse. He now ran his long, thin, clerkly hands through his long, thin, clerkly hair.
“Ramson, down on Fulton Street, will have them, if any one has,” he said presently. “He does business under the title of the Insect Nemesis, you know. I’ll go there at once.”
Returning to his routine work, Average Jones found himself unable to dislodge the advertisement from his mind. So presently he gave way to temptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked him to come to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience. Scenting more adventure, Bertram found it convenient to come promptly. Average Jones handed him the clipping. Bertram read it with ascending eyebrows.
“Hoots!” he said. “The man’s mad.”
“I didn’t ask you here to diagnose the advertiser’s trouble. That’s plain enough—though you’ve made a bad guess. What I want of you is to tap your flow of information about old New York. What’s at One Hundred West Sixteenth Street?”
“One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it’s the old Feltner mansion. You must know it. It has a walled garden at the side; the only one left in the city, south of Central Park.”
“Any one named Ackroyd there?”
“That must be Hawley Ackroyd. I remember, now, hearing that he had rented it. Judge Ackroyd, you know, better known as ‘Oily’ Ackroyd. He’s a smooth old rascal.”
“Indeed? What particular sort?”
“Oh, most sorts, in private. Professionally, he’s a legislative crook; head lobbyist of the Consolidated.”