“Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker’s touching confidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise it doesn’t, interest me. Get some one else to find your young hopeful.”
“It ain’t no case of findin’ now. The boy’s dead.” His strident voice quavered and broke, but rose again to a snarl. “And, by God, I’ll spend a million to get the dogs that murdered him.”
At the word “murdered” Average Jones’ clean cut, agreeable, but rather stolidly neutral face underwent a subtle transformation. Another personality looked out from the deep-set, somnolent, gray eyes; a personality resolute, forceful and quietly alert. It was apparently belied by the hesitant drawl, which, as all who had ever seen the Ad-Visor at his chosen pursuits well knew, signified awakened or intensified interest in the matter in hand.
“Where—er—is—the—er—body”
“I don’t know. It ain’t been found.”
“Then how do you know he’s dead?”
The other tore open the bundle he carried, and spread before Average Jones a white stained shirt with ominous brown splotches.
“It’s his shirt. There’s the initials. Mailed to my house and got there just after I left. My secretary brought it on, with the note that come pinned to it. Here it is.”
He produced a bit of coarse wrapping-paper upon which was this message in rough capital letters:
TWO DAGOES SHOT HIM DASSENT SAY NO MORE FROM A FRIEND IN CINCINNATI.