"He's a
vindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poor
devil of a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed to
keep it out of the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine."
"That might be worth looking up, too," ruminated Average Jones
thoughtfully.
He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. "All right, come,
in, Simpson," he said.
The confidential clerk appeared. "Ramson says that regular black
beetles are out of season, sir," he reported. "But he can send to
the country and dig up plenty of red-and-black ones."
"That will do," returned the Ad-Visor. "Tell him to have two or
three hundred here to-morrow morning."
Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. "Meaning that you're
going to follow up this freak affair?" he inquired.
"Just that. I can't explain why, but--well, Bert, I've a hunch. At
the worst, Ackroyd's face when he sees the beetles should be worth
the money."
"When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you,
look out for Ackroyd.
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