“Yes. But you wouldn’t ask me to be a party to any such thing.”
“You’re a party, involuntarily, by remaining here. But do your best to save Peter Paul, if you will. And please call me up immediately at the Cosmic Club, if anything in my line turns up.”
“What is your line?” asked Miss Graham, the smile returning to her lips. “Creepy, crawly bugs? Or imperiled dogs? Or rescuing prospectively distressed damsels?”
“Technically it’s advertising,” replied Average Jones, who had been formulating a shrewd little plan of his own. “Let me recommend to you the advertising columns of the daily press. They’re often amusing. Moreover your uncle might break out in print again. Who knows?”
“Who, indeed? I’ll read religiously.”
“And, by the way, my beetles. I forgot and left them here. Oh, there’s the box. I may have a very specific use for them later. Au revoir—and may it be soon!”
The two days succeeding seemed to Average Jones, haunted as he was by an importunate craving to look again into Miss Graham’s limpid and changeful eyes, a dull and sodden period of probation. The messenger boy who finally brought her expected note, looked to him like a Greek godling. The note enclosed this clipping:
LOST—Pug dog answering to the name of Peter Paul. Very old and asthmatic. Last seen on West 16th Street. Liberal reward for information to Anxious. Care of Banner office.
Dear Mr. Jones (she had written):
Are you a prophet? (Average Jones chuckled, at this point.) The enclosed seems to be distinctly in our line. Could you come some time this afternoon? I’m puzzled and a little anxious.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Graham.