Average Jones laughed, “There isn’t any Smith,” he said.
“What do you know about it?” demanded Bertram, sitting up.
“Only what the advertisement tells me. It was written by a foreigner; that’s too obvious for argument. ‘Emolument generous.’ ‘Apply in proper person.’ Did a Smith ever write that? No. A Borgrevsky might have, or a Greiffenhauser, or even a Mavronovoupoulos. But never Smith.”
“Well, it’s nothing to me what his name is. Only I thought you might be the aspiring young scientist he was yearning for.”
“Wouldn’t wonder if I were, thank you. Let’s see. Bellair Street? Where’s the directory? Thanks. Yes, it is Greenwich Village. Well, I think I’ll just stroll down that way and have a look after dinner.”
Thus it was that Mr. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton Jones found himself on a hot May evening pursuing the Adventure of Life into the vestibule of a rather dingy old house which had once been the abode of solemn prosperity if not actual aristocracy in the olden days of New York City. Almost immediately the telegraphic click of the lock apprised him that he might enter, and as he stepped into the hallway the door of the right-hand ground-floor apartment opened to him.
“You will please come in,” said a voice.
The tone was gentle and measured. Also it was, by its accent, alien to any rightful Smith. The visitor stepped into a passageway which was dim until he entered it and the door swung behind him. Then it became pitch black.
“You will pardon this,” said the voice. “A severe affection of the eyes compels me.”
“You are Mr. Smith?” asked Average Jones.