"Doctor Hoff is here, Mr. Jones. I told him you couldn't see him,
but he wouldn't take no. Says he was recommended to you by a former
client."

Following the word, there burst into Average Jones' private sanctum
a gross old man, silk-hatted and bediamonded, whose side-whiskers
bristled whitely with perturbed self-importance. In his hand was a
patchy bundle.

"They tried to stop me!" he sputtered. "Me! I'm worth ten million
dollars, an' a ten-dollar-a-week office toad tries to hold me up
when I come here myself person'ly, from Toledo to see you."

Analysis of advertising in all its forms had inspired Average Jones
with a profound contempt and dislike for the cruelest of all forms
of swindling medical quackery. And this swollen, smug-faced
intruder looked a particularly offensive specimen of his kind.
Therefore the Ad-Visor said curtly:

"I can't take your case. Good day--"

"Not take it! Did you read the reward?"

"Yes. It is interesting as showing the patent medicine faker's
touching confidence in the power of advertising. Otherwise it
doesn't, interest me. Get some one else to find your young
hopeful."

"It ain't no case of findin' now. The boy's dead." His strident
voice quavered and broke, but rose again to a snarl. "And, by God,