“If you’re suffering from the delusion that you’re a duck,” observed the young man mildly, “you’ll find a taxidermist on the top floor.”
The caller turned purple. “If you are Mr. Jones, of the Cosmic Club—”
“I am.”
“—there are certain things which Mr. Bertram must explain.”
“Yes; Bertram said that you were coming, but I’d almost given you up. Come in.”
“Into a—a den where free advice is offered? Of all the patent and infernal rascalities, sir, the offer of free advice—”
“There, there,” soothed the younger man. “I know all about the free swindles. This isn’t one of them. It’s just a fad of mine.”
He led the perturbed scholar inside and got him settled in a chair. “Now, go ahead. Show me the advertisement and tell me how much you lost.”
“I’ve lost my assistant. There is no advertisement about it. What I came for is advice. But upon seeing your tricky door-plate—”
“Oh, that’s merely to encourage the timorous. Who is this assistant?”