Average Jones by Samuel Hopkins Adams
page 113 of 345 (32%)
page 113 of 345 (32%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
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. "Yes. Your hand if you please." The visitor, groping, brushed with his fingers the back of a hand which felt strangely hot and pulpy. Immediately the hand turned and closed, and he was led forward to an inner room and seated in a chair. The gentle, hot clasp relaxed and left his wrist free. A door facing him, if his ears could be trusted, opened and shut. "You will find matches at your elbow," said the voice, coming dulled, from a further apartment. "Doubtless you would be more comfortable with a light." "Thank you," returned Average Jones, enormously entertained by the dime-novel setting which his host had provided for him. He lighted the gas and looked about a sparsely furnished room without a single distinguishing feature, unless a high and odd-shaped traveling-bag which stood on a chair near by could be so regarded. The voice interrupted his survey. "You have come in answer to my advertisement?" |
|