his new enterprise. Average Jones made two steps to a bookcase,
took down a huge scrap-book from an alphabetized row, and turned the
leaves rapidly.

"Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street," said he, slamming the
book shut again. "Three Hundred East One Hundredth. You won't
mind, will you," he said to Waldemar, "if I leave you
unceremoniously?"

"Recalled a forgotten engagement?" asked the other, rising.

"Yes. No. I mean I'm going to Harlem to hear some music.
Thirty-fourth's the nearest station, isn't it? Thanks. So long."

Waldemar rubbed his head thoughtfully as the door slammed behind the
speeding Ad-Visor.

"Now, what kind of a tune is he on the track of, I wonder?" he
mused. "I wish it hadn't struck him until I'd had time to go over
the Linder business with him."

But while Waldemar rubbed his head in cogitatation and the Honorable
William Linder, in his Brooklyn headquarters, breathed charily, out
of respect to his creaking rib, Average Jones was following fate
northward.

Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street is a house decrepit with a
disease of the aged. Its windowed eyes are rheumy. It sags
backward on gnarled joints. All its poor old bones creak when the
winds shake it. To Average Jones' inquiring gaze on this summer day