I'll spend a million to get the dogs that murdered him."

At the word "murdered" Average Jones' clean cut, agreeable, but
rather stolidly neutral face underwent a subtle transformation.
Another personality looked out from the deep-set, somnolent, gray
eyes; a personality resolute, forceful and quietly alert. It was
apparently belied by the hesitant drawl, which, as all who had ever
seen the Ad-Visor at his chosen pursuits well knew, signified
awakened or intensified interest in the matter in hand.

"Where--er--is--the--er--body"

"I don't know. It ain't been found."

"Then how do you know he's dead?"

The other tore open the bundle he carried, and spread before Average
Jones a white stained shirt with ominous brown splotches.

"It's his shirt. There's the initials. Mailed to my house and got
there just after I left. My secretary brought it on, with the note
that come pinned to it. Here it is."

He produced a bit of coarse wrapping-paper upon which was this
message in rough capital letters:

TWO DAGOES SHOT HIM DASSENT SAY NO
MORE FROM A FRIEND IN CINCINNATI

Average Jones examined the wrapper. It was postmarked Cincinnati.