"Look, Average, it's the 'Mercy' sign again. What a hideous
travesty!"
Average Jones shook his bead.
"It isn't 'Mercy,' Bert. It's the label that he attached, for
precaution, to everything that had to do with his deadly stuff. The
formula for cyanide of cacodyl is 'Me-2CY.' It was the scrawly
handwriting that misled; that's all."
"So I was right when I suggested that his 'Mercy' had gone back on
him," said Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, with a semi-hysterical
giggle.
Average Jones looked from the peaceful face of the dead to the
label, fluttering in the light breeze.
"No," he said gravely. "You were wrong. It was his friend to the
last."
CHAPTER VI
BLUE FIRES
"Cabs for comfort; cars for company," was an apothegm which Average
Jones had evolved from experience. A professed student of life, he
maintained, must keep in touch with life at every feasible angle.
No experience should come amiss to a detective; he should be a
pundit of all knowledge. A detective he now frankly considered himself;
and the real drudgery of his unique profession of Ad-Visor was
supportable only because of the compensating thrill of the
occasional chase, the radiance of the Adventure of Life glinting
from time to time across his path.
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