"As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on special
order to dig through the files of the local and neighboring city
newspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If our
unknown has devised a new method of canicide, it's quite possible he
may have worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can't
be wise, be careful."

Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular
pastime in and around New York, judging from the succession of news
items which poured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Several
days were exhausted by false clues. Then one morning there arrived,
among other data, an article from the Bridgeport Morning Delineator
which caused the Ad-Visor to sit up with a jerk. It detailed the
poisoning of several dogs under peculiar circumstances. Three hours
later he was in the bustling Connecticut city. There he took
carriage for the house of Mr. Curtis Fleming, whose valuable Great
Dane dog had been the last victim.

Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman all
grown to a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of
irascible gleam, and a most pointed manner of speech.

"Who are you?" he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was ushered in.

Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to deal
with it.

"Jones!" he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the
monosyllable fairly exploded in the other's face.