it opposed the secrecy of a senile indifference. He hesitated to
pull at its bell-knob, lest by that act he should exert a disruptive
force which might bring all the frail structure rattling down in
ruin. When, at length, he forced himself to the summons, the merest
ghost of a tinkle complained petulantly from within against his
violence.

An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round and
comfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all.
Average Jones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly
locust shells which cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found
within a plump and prosperous beetle.

"Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this
house, ma'am?" he inquired.

"Long ago," said she.

"Am I too late, then?"

"Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never,"
said the old lady with conviction, "seen such a frazzled lot of
folks as B-flat trombone players."

"The person who inserted the advertisement--?"

"Has left. A month since."

"Could you tell where he went?"