Apartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in
this building. Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he
is one of the confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat
Company. Do you see?"

"I begin," replied young Mr. Dorr.

"It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor
above, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting
work late at night when the elevator had stopped running and--let us
say--peep through the keyhole."

Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean
lines of his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh.

"I don't know what you're going to do to Mr. Ross," he said, "but I
want to see him first."

"I'm not going to do anything to him," returned Average Jones,
"because, in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away,
having noted, doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis
of the nerves. It's strange how nervous your scientific murderer
is. Anyway, Ross is only an agent. I'm going to aim higher."

"As how?"

"Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare a
peaceful but murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his
senses; second, I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas;
and third, I expect to raise the street selling price of the evening