The speaker examined the keyhole, then walked over to the radiator and looked over, under and through it minutely. “Nothing there,” he observed; and, after extending his examination to the windows, book-shelf and desk, added:
“I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safest side is the best.”
“What is it? Some new game in projective germs?” demanded the chemist.
“Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs,” returned Average Jones. “Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I’ll have some mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a plumber solder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of dynamite can get through it.”
Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer of luna moths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came in by, every mail, responding variously with fervor, suspicion, yearning eagerness, and bitter skepticism to Average Jones’ advertisement. All of these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And each day he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with the directory of occupants of the Stengel Building. Less than a week after the luna moth advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into Malcolm Dorr’s office with a twinkle in his eye.
“Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?” he asked the chemist.
“Never heard of him.”
“Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the rest of the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater Apartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building. Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he is one of the confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat Company. Do you see?”
“I begin,” replied young Mr. Dorr.
“It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor above, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting work late at night when the elevator had stopped running and—let us say—peep through the keyhole.”