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"
"'Weather reports, eh?" Average Jones mused a moment. "How long was
the ad to run?"
"Until the first hard frost."
"Has there--er--been a--er--frost since?" drawled Average Jones.
"No."
"Who is this Moseley?"
"Don't know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, I
believe. Very exclusive," added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin.
"Never sociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though.
Insane, too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in
them."
"How's that?" inquired Average Jones.
The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "It
got enclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The
handwriting on the envelope is his own. Look inside."
A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in
New York on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was
a small slip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubber
stamp. There was no writing of any kind. Near the center of the
sheet were three dots. They seemed to have been made with red ink.


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