"You're in charge, then?"

"It's my house. And there are no relatives so far as I know. Come
and look at his papers. You won't find much."

In the old-fashioned desk was a heap of undecipherable matter,
interspersed with dates, apparently bearing upon scientific
experiments; a package of letters from the Denny Research
Laboratories of St. Louis, mentioning enclosure of checks; and three
self-addressed envelopes bearing New York postmarks, of dates
respectively, March 12, March 14 and March 20. Each contained a
date-stamped sheet of paper, similar to that which Mr. Curtis
Fleming had shown to Average Jones. The one of earliest date bore
two red dots; the second, three red dots, and the third, two. All
the envelopes were endorsed in Professor Moseley's handwriting; the
first with the one word "Filled." The second writing was "Held for
warmer weather." The last was inscribed "One in poor condition."

Of these Average Jones made careful note, as well as of the
laboratory address. By this time the hissing of the fumigating
apparatus had ceased. The two men went to the conservatory and
gazed in upon a ruin of limp leaves and flaccid petals, killed by
the powerful gases. Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment,
the investigator stooped and lifted from the floor a marvel of
ermine body and pale green wings. The moth, spreading nearly a
foot, was quite dead.

"Here's the mate, sir," said the fumigating expert, handing him
another specimen, a trifle smaller. "The place was crowded with all