“Oh, very well,” said he, “I’ll go and make it myself.”
The amazement inspired in Doctor Hoff’s mind by this pronouncement was augmented in the next few days by the fact that Roderick was very busy about town in his motor-car, and was changed to vivid alarm immediately thereafter by the young man’s disappearance. To all intents and appearances, Roderick Hoff had dropped off the earth on or about April twelfth. By April fifteenth New York, Pittsburg, Chicago, Washington and other clearing-houses for the distribution of the unspent increment were apprised of the elder Hoff’s five thousand-dollar anxiety through the medium of the daily press. This advertisement it was, upon the practical merits of which Average Jones and his confidential clerk had differed.
“If there were any chance of sport in it,” mused Average Jones, “I’d go in. But to follow the trail of a spurious young sport from bar-room to brothel and from brothel to gambling hell—” He shook his head. “Not good enough,” he repeated.
Simpson’s face appeared at the door. His blond forehead was wrinkled with excitement.
“Doctor Hoff is here, Mr. Jones. I told him you couldn’t see him, but he wouldn’t take no. Says he was recommended to you by a former client.”
Following the word, there burst into Average Jones’ private sanctum a gross old man, silk-hatted and bediamonded, whose side-whiskers bristled whitely with perturbed self-importance. In his hand was a patchy bundle.
“They tried to stop me!” he sputtered. “Me! I’m worth ten million dollars, an’ a ten-dollar-a-week office toad tries to hold me up when I come here myself person’ly, from Toledo to see you.”
Analysis of advertising in all its forms had inspired Average Jones with a profound contempt and dislike for the cruelest of all forms of swindling medical quackery. And this swollen, smug-faced intruder looked a particularly offensive specimen of his kind. Therefore the Ad-Visor said curtly:
“I can’t take your case. Good day—”
“Not take it! Did you read the reward?”