“Do you ever chew gum?” he asked suddenly.
The Chemist stared at him. “It isn’t a habit of mine to,” he said.
“But you wouldn’t have any objection to my sending for some, in satisfaction of a sudden irresistible craving?”
“Any particular brand? I’ll phone the corner drug store.”
“Any sort will suit, thank you.”
When the gum arrived, Average Jones, after politely offering some to his host, chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled out to an extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across the unused keyhole, which it completely though thinly, veiled.
“Now, what’s that for?” inquired the chemist, eying the improvised closure with some contempt.
“Don’t know, exactly, yet,” replied the deviser, cheerfully. “But when queer and fatal things happen in a room and there’s only one opening, it’s just as well to keep your eye on that, no matter how small it is. Better still, perhaps, if you’d shift your office.”
The fat young chemist pushed his hair back, looked out of the window, and then turned to Average Jones. The rather flabby lines of his face had abruptly hardened over the firm contour below.
“No. I’m hanged if I will,” he said simply.