But Average Jones sat unheeding. The liquor dribbled down into his
lap. He kept his fascinated gaze fixed on the shattered glass.
Bertram dabbed him with a napkin.

"Tha--a--anks, Bertram," drawled the beneficiary of this attention.
"Doesn't matter. Excuse me. Good night."

Leaving his surprised companions, he took hat and cane and caught a
Third Avenue car. By the time he had reached Brooklyn Bridge he had
his campaign mapped out. It all depended upon the opening question.
Average Jones decided to hit out and hit quick.

At the house near the Navy Yard he learned that his man was out.
So he sat upon the front steps while one of the highest-priced wines
in New York dried into his knees. Shortly before eleven a shuffling
figure paused at the steps, feeling for a key.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, otherwise Ransom?" said Average Jones blandly.

The man's chin jerked back. His jaw dropped.

"Would you like to hire another B-flat trombonist?" pursued the
young man.

"Who are you?" gasped the other. "What do you want?"

"I want to know," drawled Average Jones, "how--er-you planted the
glass bulb--er--the sulphuric acid bulb, you know--in the chair that
you sent--er--to the Honorable William Linder, so that--er--it