Returning to his routine work, Av
erage Jones found himself unable to
dislodge the advertisement from his
mind. So presently he gave way to
temptation, called up Bertram at the
Cosmic club, and asked him to come
to the Astor Court temple offices at
his convenience. Scenting more ad
venture, Bertram found it convenient
to come promptly. Average Jones
handed him the clipping. Bertram
read it with ascending eyebrows.
"What's at One Hundred West Six
teenth street?" demanded Jones.
"One Hundred West Sixteenth let
me see. Why, of course it's the old
Feltner mansion. Ycu must know it.
It has a walled garden at the side
the only one lctt in the city, south of
Central Park."
"Anyone named Ackroyd there?"
"That must be Hawley Ackroyd. I
remember, now, hearing that he had
rented it. Judge Ackroyd, you know,
better known as 'Oily' Ackroyd. He's
a smooth old rascal."
"Ever near of his collecting in
sects?"
"Never heard of his collecting any
thing but graft. In fact, he'd have
been in jail years ago, but for his fam
ily connections. He married a Van
Haltern. You remember the famous
Van Haltern will case, surely the
million-dollar dog. The papers fairly
reeked of it a year ago. Sylyia Gra
ham had to take the dog and leave
the country to escape the notoriety.
She's back now, I believe."
"I've heard of Miss Graham," re
marked Average Jones.
