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"You're sure the address is in Professor Moseley's writing?"
"I'd swear to it."
"It doesn't follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I should
judge that it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not to
have any specimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.
"Perhaps. What's your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious
young friend?"
"Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours."
"Well, I've got my man. He confessed."
"Confessed?" echoed Average Jones.
"Practically. I've kept the point of the story to the last.
Professor Moseley committed suicide this morning."
If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on his
visitor, his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet
slowly, walked over to the window, returned, picked up the strange proof
with its message of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the
window, and stared out into the day.
"Cut his throat about nine o'clock this morning," pursued the other.
"Dead when they found him.


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