Canvass of the local trucking industry brought to light the conveyor
of that elegant article of furniture. It had gone, Average Jones
learned, not to the mansion of the Honorable William Linder, as he
had fondly hoped, but to an obscure address not far from the Navy
Yard in Brooklyn. To this address, having looked up and gathered in
the B-flat trombonist, Average Jones led the way. The pair lurked
in the neighborhood of the ramshackle house watching the entrance,
until toward evening, as the door opened to let out a tremulous
wreck of a man, palsied with debauch, Schlichting observed:

"That iss him. He hass been drinking again once."

Average Jones hurried the musician around the corner into
concealment. "You have been here before to meet Mr. Ransom?"

"No."

"Where did he meet you to pay you your wages?"

"On some corner," said the other vaguely.

"Then he took you to the big house and left you there," urged Jones.

"No; he left me on the street corner. 'When the feet iss in the
window,' he says, 'you play.'"

"It comes to this," drawled Average Jones intently, looking the
employee between his vacuous eyes. "Ransom shipped the chair to
Plymouth Street and from there to Linder's house. He figured out