Coming down about noon,
Average Jones entered the colonel's small study just in time to see
Livius, who was alone in the room, turn away sharply from the desk.
His elbow was held close to his ribs in a peculiar manner. He was
concealing something under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness,
Average Jones stumbled against him in passing. Livius drew away,
his high forehead working with suspicion. The Ad-Visor's expression
of blank apology, eked out with a bow and a grimace, belied the
busy-working mind within. For, in the moment's contact, he had
heard the crisp rustle of paper from beneath the ill-fitting coat.
What paper had the man from B. C. taken furtively from his
benefactor's table? It must be large; otherwise he could have
readily thrust it into his pocket. No sooner was Livius out of the
room than Average Jones scanned the desk. His face lighted with a
sudden smile. Colonel Graeme never read a newspaper; boasted, in
fact, that he wouldn't have one about the place. But, as Average
Jones distinctly recalled, he had, himself, that very morning
brought, in a copy of the Globe and dropped it into the scrap basket
near the writing-table.
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