On a side porch, over which bright roses swarmed like children
clambering into a hospitable lap, sat a man with a gray face. He
was tall and slender, and his hair, a dingy black, was already
showing worn streaks where the color had faded. At Average Jones he
gazed with unconcealed surprise.

"Ah; it is you!" he exclaimed. "You," he smiled, "are the 'Mercy'
of the advertisement?"

"Yes."

"And these gentlemen?"

"Are my friends."

"You will come in?"

Average Jones examined a nodding rose with an indulgent, almost a
paternal, expression.

"If you--er--think it--er--safe," he murmured.

"Assuredly."

As if exacting a pledge the young man held out his hand. The older
one unhesitatingly grasped it. Average Jones turned the long
fingers, which enclosed his, back upward, and glanced at them.

"Ah," he said, and nodded soberly, "so, it is that."