So presently he gave way
to temptation, called up Bertram at the Cosmic Club, and asked him
to come to the Astor Court Temple office at his convenience.
Scenting more adventure, Bertram found it convenient to come
promptly. Average Jones handed him the clipping. Bertram read it
with ascending eyebrows.
"Hoots!" he said. "The man's mad."
"I didn't ask you here to diagnose the advertiser's trouble. That's
plain enough--though you've made a bad guess. What I want of you is
to tap your flow of information about old New York. What's at One
Hundred West Sixteenth Street?"
"One hundred West Sixteenth; let me see. Why, of course; it's the
old Feltner mansion. You must know it. It has a walled garden at
the side; the only one left in the city, south of Central Park."
"Any one 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."
"Indeed? What particular sort?"
"Oh, most sorts, in private.
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