He next smoothed out the creased silk and studied minutely the
blotches, which were heaviest about the left breast and shoulder.

To the surprise of Doctor Hoff, the young man's glance roved the big
desk before him, settling with satisfaction upon a sponge-cup for
moistening stamps. Applying this to one of the spots on the shirt,
he rubbed the wetted portion vigorously on a sheet of paper which
lay near at hand. His lips pursed. He whistled very softly and
meditatively. He scratched his chin with a slow movement.

"Is that all?" he shot out suddenly at the older man.

"All! Ain't it enough? He's been murdered; murdered, I tell you,
an' you set there an' whistle!"

Average Jones directed a dreamy smile toward a far comer of the
room.

"I don't see anything so far," he observed, "to indicate that your
son is not alive and well at this moment."

Doctor Hoff struck his fist down heavily on the desk. "What's this
you're givin' me? Can't you read? Look at that note there, an' the
blood on the shirt."

"Would you mind moderating your voice? My outside office is full of
more or less excitable clients," said the Ad-Visor mildly.
"Moreover, it's not blood anyway."

"What is it, then?"