"The thing is a fake," declared Bertram. He slumped heavily into achair, and scowled at Average Jones' well-littered desk, whereon hehad just tossed a sheet of paper. His usually impeccable hair wastousled. His trousers evinced a distinct tendency to bag at theknees, and his coat was undeniably wrinkled. That the elegant andflawless dilettante of the Cosmic Club should have come forth, ateleven o'clock of a morning, in such a state of comparativedisreputability, argued an upheaval of mind little short ofphenomenal.
"A fake," he reiterated. "I've spent a night ofpseudo-intellectual riot and ruin over it. You've almost destroyeda young and innocent mind with your infernal palimpsest, Average."
"You would have it," returned Average Jones with a smile. "And Iseem to recall a lofty intimation on your part that there never wasa cipher so tough but what you could rope, throw, bind, and tie apink ribbon on its tail in record time."
"Cipher, yes," returned the other bitterly. "That thing isn't acipher. It's an alphabetical riot. Maybe," he added hopefully,"there was some mistake in my copy?"
"Look for yourself," said Average Jones, handing him the original.
It was a singular document, this problem in letters which had cometo light up the gloom of a November day for Average Jones; astiffish sheet of paper, ornamented on one side with color printsof alluring "spinners," and on the other inscribed with an appeal,in print. Its original vehicle was an envelope, bearing a one-centstamp, and addressed in typewriting:
Mr. William H. Robinson,The Caronia,Broadway and Evenside Ave.,New York City.
The advertisement on the reverse of the sheet ran as follows:
ANGLERS--When you are looking for "Baits That Catch Fish," do you see these spinners in the store where you buy tackle? You will find here twelve baits, every one of which has a record and has literally caught tons of fish. We call them "The 12 Surety Baits." We want you to try them for casting and trolling these next two months, because all varieties of bass are particularly savage in striking these baits late in the season.
DEALERS--You want your customers to have these 12 Shoemaker "Surety Baits" that catch fish. This case will sell itself empty over and over again, for every bait is a record-breaker and they catch fish. We want you to put in one of these cases so that the anglers will not be disappointed and have to wait for baits to be ordered. It will be furnished FREE, charges prepaid, with your order for the dozen bait it contains.
The peculiar feature of the communication was that it was profuselybe-pimpled with tiny projections, evidently made by thrusting a pinin from the side which bore the illustrations. The perforationswere liberally scattered. Most, though not all of them, transfixedcertain letters. Accepting this as indicative, Bertram had copiedout all the letters thus distinguished, with the following crypticresult:
b-n-o-k-n-o-a-h-i (doubtful) i (doubtful) d-o-o-u-t-s-e-h-wh-e-w-a-l-e-w-f-i-h-i-e-l-y-a-n-u-t-t-m-a-m (doubtful) g-e-x-c-s(doubtful) s-e M-e-p-c (two punctures) t-y-w-u-s-o-m-e-r-sh-a-s 1 S-k-t-s-a-s-e-l-e-v-a-h (twice) W-y-o-u (doubtful)h-c-s-e-v-t-l-t-f-r (perforated twice) c-a-o-u-c-e-o-c (doubtful)m-t (perforated twice) n-o-h-a-e-f-o-u-w-o-r-i-t-h-i-r-e-d-w-l-l-b (Perforated three times) f-u-h-g-e-p-d-h-o-d- (doubtful)e-f-h-g-b-t-n-t.
"Yes, the copy's all right," growled Bertram. "Tell me again howyou came by it."
"Robinson came here twice and missed me. Yesterday I got the notefrom him which you've seen, with the enclosure which has sothreatened your reason. You know the rest. Perhaps you'd have donewell to study the note for clues to the other document."
Something in his friend's tone made Bertram glance up suspiciously."Let me see the note," he demanded.
Average Jones handed it to him. There was no stamp on it; it hadbeen left by the writer. It was addressed, in rather scrawlychirography, to "A. Jones, Ad-Visor," and read:
> THE CARONIA, Nov. 18.<?p>
MR. A. JONES, Astor Court Temple:
I have tried unsuccessfully to see you twice. Enclosedyou will find the reason. Please read through it carefully.Then I am sure you will see and help me. Money is noobject. I will call to-morrow at noon.
Respectfully,
WILLIAM H. ROBINSON.
"Well, I see nothing out of the ordinary in that," observed Bertram.
"Nothing?" inquired Average Jones.
Bertram read the message again. "Of course the man is rattled.That's obvious in his handwriting. Also, he has inverted onesentence in his haste and said 'read through it,' instead, of 'readit through.' Otherwise, it's ordinary enough."
"It must be vanity that keeps you from eyeglasses, Bert," AverageJones observed with a sigh. "Well, I'm afraid I set you on thewrong track, myself!"
Bertram lifted an eyebrow with an effort. "Meaning, I suppose, thatyou're on the tight and have solved the cipher."
"Cipher be jiggered. You were right in your opening remark. There isn'tany cipher. If you read Mr. Robinson's note correctly, and if you'dhad the advantage of working on the original of the advertisement asI have, you'd undoubtedly have noticed at once--"
"Thank you," murmured Bertram.
"--that fully one-third of the pin-pricks don't touch any letters atall."
"Then we should have taken the letters which lie between the holes?"
"No. The letters don't count. It's the punctures. Force your eyesto consider those alone, and you will see that the holes themselvesform letters and words. Read through it carefully, as Robinsdirected."
He held the paper up to the light. Bertram made out in stragglingcharacters, formed in skeleton the perforations, this legend:
ALL POINTS TO YOU
TAKE THE SHORT CUT
DEATH IS EASIER THAN
SOME THINGS.
"Whew! That's a cheery little greeting," remarked Bertram. "But whydidn't friend Robinson point it out definitely in his letter?"
"Wanted to test my capacity perhaps. Or, it may have been simplythat he was too frightened and rattled to know just what he waswriting."
"Know anything of him?"
"Only what the directory tells, and directories don't deal in reallyintimate details of biography, you know. There's quite anassortment of William H. Robinsons, but the one who lives at theCaronia appears to be a commission merchant on Pearl Street. As theCaronia is one of the most elegant and quite the most enormous ofthose small cities within themselves which we call apartment houses,I take it that Mr. Robinson is well-to-do, and probably married.You can ask him, yourself, if you like. He's due any moment, now."
Promptly, as befitted a business man, Mr. William H. Robinsonarrived on the stroke of twelve. He was a well-made, well-dressedcitizen of forty-five, who would have been wholly ordinary save forone peculiarity. In a room more than temperately cool he wassweating profusely, and that, despite the fact that his lightovercoat was on his arm. Not polite perspiration, be it noted, suchas would have been excusable in a gentleman of his pale and sleekplumpness, but soul-wrung sweat, the globules whereof gathered inthe grayish hollows under his eyes and assailed, not without effect,the glistening expanse of his tall white collar. He darted a glanceat Bertram, then turned to Average Jones.
"I had hoped for a private interview," he said in a high pipingvoice.
"Mr. Bertram is my friend and business confidant."
"Very good. You--you have read it?"
"Yes."
"Then--then--then--" The visitor fumble with nerveless fingers, athis tightly buttoned cut-away coat. It resisted his efforts.Suddenly, with a snarl of exasperation, he dragged violently at thelapel, tearing the button outright from the cloth. "Look what Ihave done," he said, staring stupidly for a moment at the buttonwhich had shot across the room. Then, to the amazed consternationof the others, he burst into tears.
Average Jones pushed a chair behind him, while Bertram brought him aglass of water. He gulped out his thanks, and, mastering himselfafter a moment's effort, drew a paper from his inner pocket which heplaced on the desk. It was a certified check for one hundreddollars, made payable to Jones.
"There's the rest of a thousand ready, if you can help me," he said.
"We'll talk of that later," said the prospective beneficiary. "Sittight until you're able to answer questions."
"Able now," piped the other in his shrill voice. "I'm ashamed ofmyself, gentlemen, but the strain I've been under-- When you'veheard my story--"
"Just a moment, please," interrupted Average Jones, "let me get atthis my own way."
"Any way you like," returned the visitor.
"Good! Now what is it that points to you?"
"I don't know any more than you."
"What are the 'some things' that are worse than death?"
Mr. Robinson shook his head. "I haven't the slightest notion in theworld."
"Nor of the 'short cut' which you are advised to take?"
"I suppose it means suicide." He paused for a moment. "They can'tdrive me to that--unless they drive me crazy first." He wiped thesweat from under his eyes, breathing hard.
"Who are they?"'
Mr. Robinson shook his head. In the next question theinterrogator's tone altered and became more insistent.
"Have you ever called in a doctor, Mr. Robinson?"
"Only once in five years. That was when my nerves broke down--underthis."
"When you do call in a doctor, is it your habit to conceal yoursymptoms from him?"
"Of course not. I see what you mean. Mr. Jones, I give, you myword of honor, as I hope to be saved from this persecution, I don'tknow any more than yourself what it means."
"Then--er--I am--er--to believe," replied Jones, drawling, as healways did when interest, in his mind, was verging on excitement,"that a simple blind threat like this--er--without any backing fromyour own conscience--er--could shake you--er--as this has done?Why, Mr. Robinson, the thing--er--may be--er--only a raw practicaljoke."
"But the others!" cried the visitor. His face changed and fell. "Ibelieve I am going crazy," he groaned. "I didn't tell you about theothers."
Diving into his overcoat pocket he drew out a packet of letterswhich he placed on the desk with a sort of dismal flourish.
"Read those!" he cried.
"Presently." Average Jones ran rapidly over the eight envelopes.With one exception, each bore the imprint of some firm name madefamiliar by extensive advertising. All the envelopes were ofsoftish Manila paper varying in grade and hue, under one-centstamps.
"Which is the first of the series?" he asked.
"It isn't among those. Unfortunately it was lost, by a stupidservant's mistake, pin and all."
"Pin?"
"Yes. Where I cut open the envelope--"
"Wait a moment. You say you cut it open. All these, being one-centpostage, must have come unsealed. Was the first different?"
"Yes. It had a two-cent stamp. It was a circular announcement ofthe Swift-Reading Encyclopedia, in a sealed envelope. There was apin bent over the fold of the letter so you couldn't help but noticeit. Its head was stuck through the blank part of the circular.Leading from it were three very small pins arranged as a pointer tothe message."
"Do you remember the message?"
"Could I forget it! It was pricked out quite small on the blankfold of the paper. It said: 'Make the most of your freedom. Yourtime is short. Call at General Delivery, Main P. O., for yourwarning.' I--"
"You went there?"
"The next day."
"And found--?"
"An ordinary sealed envelope, addressed in pinpricks connected bypencil lines. The address was scrawly, but quite plain."
"Well, what did it contain?"
"A commitment blank to an insane asylum."
Average Jones absently drew out his handkerchief, elaboratelywhisked from his coat sleeve an imaginary speck of dust, and smiledbenignantly where the dust was supposed to have been.
"Insane asylum," he murmured. "Was--er--the blank--er--filled in?"
"Only partly. My name was pricked in, and there was a specificationof dementia from drug habit, with suicidal tendencies."
With a quick signal, unseen by the visitor, Average Jones opened theway to Bertram, who, in wide range of experience and study had oncespecialized upon abnormal mental phenomena.
"Pardon me," that gentleman put in gently, "has there ever been anydementia in your family?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Or suicidal mania?"
"All my people have died respectably in their beds," declared thevisitor with some vehemence.
"Once more, if I may venture. Have you ever been addicted to anydrug?"
"Never, sir."
"Now," Average Jones took up the examination, "will you tell me ofany enemy who would have reason to persecute you?"
"I haven't an enemy in the world."
"You're fortunate," returned the other smiling, "but surely, sometime in your career--business rivalry--family alienation--any one ofa thousand causes?"
"No," answered the harassed man. "Not for me. My business runssmoothly. My relations are mostly dead. I have no friends and noenemies. My wife and I live alone, and all we ask," he added in asudden outburst of almost childish resentment, "is to be leftalone."
The inquisitor's gaze returned to the packet of letters. "Youhaven't complained to the post-office authorities?"
"And risk the publicity?" returned Robinson with a shudder.
"Well, give me over night with these. Oh, and I may want to 'phoneyou presently. You'll be at home? Thank you. Good day."
"Now," said Average Jones to Bertram, as their caller's plump backdisappeared, "this looks pretty, queer to me. What did you think ofour friend?"
"Scared but straight," was Bertram's verdict.
"Glad to hear it. That's my idea, too. Let's have a look at thematerial. We've already got the opening threat, and the GeneralDelivery follow-up."
"Which shows, at least, that it isn't a case of somebody in theapartment house tampering with the mail."
"Not only that. It's a dodge to find out whether he got the firstmessage. People don't always read advertisements, even when sealed,as the first message-bearing one was. Therefore, our mysteriouspersecutor says: 'I'll just have Robinson prove it to me, if he didget the first message, by calling for the second.' Then, after alapse of time, he himself goes to the General Delivery, asks for aletter for Mr. William H. Robinson, finds it's gone, and issatisfied."
"Yes, and he'd be sure then that Robinson would go through all themailed ads with a fine-tooth comb, after that. But why thepin-pricks? Just to disguise his hand?"
"Possibly. It's a fairly effectual disguise."
"Why didn't he address the envelope that way, then?"
"The address wouldn't be legible against the white background of thepaper inside. On the other hand, if he'd addressed all hisenvelopes by pinpricks filled in with pencil lines, the post-officepeople might get curious and look into one. Sending threats throughthe mail is a serious matter."
Average Jones ran over the letter again. "Good man, Robinson!" heobserved. "He's penciled the date of receipt on each one, like afine young methodical business gent. Here we are: 'Rec'd July 14.Card from Goshorn & Co., Oriental Goods.' Message pricked inthrough the cardboard: 'You are suspected by your neighbors. Watchthem.' Not bad for a follow-up, is it?"
"It would look like insanity, if it weren't that--that through theletters 'one increasing purpose runs,'" parodied Bertram.
"Here's one of July thirty-first; an advertisement of the CroisetLine tours to the Orient. Listen here, Bert: 'Whither can guiltflee that vengeance, may not follow?'"
"I can't quite see Robinson in the part of guilt," mused Bertram."What's next?"
"More veiled accusation. The medium is a church societyannouncement of a lecture on Japanese Feudalism. Date, Augustseventeenth. Inscription: 'If there is no blood on your soul, whydo you not face your judges?"'
"Little anti-climactic, don't you think?"
"What about this one of September seventh, then? Direct referenceback to the drug habit implied in the commitment blank. It's atestimonial booklet of one of the poisonous headache dopes, LemonaPowders. The message is pricked through the cover. 'Better thesethan the hell of suspense.'"
"Trying the power of suggestion, eh?"
"Quite so. The second attempt at it is even more open. Anadvertisement of Shackleton's Safeguard Revolvers. Date, Septembertwenty-second. Advice, by pin: 'As well this as any other way.'"
"Drug or suicide," remarked Bertram. "The man at the other enddoesn't seem particular which."
"There's the insane asylum always to fall back on. Under date ofOctober first, comes the Latherton Soap Company's impassioned appealto self-shaving manhood. Great Caesar! No wonder poor Robinson wasupset. Listen to this: 'God himself hates you.' After that there'sa three-weeks respite, for there's October twenty-second on thisone, Kirkby and Dunn's offering of five percent water bonds. 'Thecommission has its spies watching you constantly.' Calculated toinspire confidence in the most timid soul! Now we come to the soupcourse: Smith and Perkins' Potted Chowder. Date of November third.Er--Bert--here's something--er--really worth while, now. Hark tothe song of the pin."
He read sonorously:
"Animula, vagula, Bandula, Hospes, comesque corporis; Quaenunc abibis in loca?"
"Hadrian, isn't it?" cried Bertram, in utter amazement. "Of courseit is! Hadrian's terrified invocation to his own parting spirit.'Guest and companion of my body; into what places will you now go?'Average, it's uncanny! Into what place of darkness and dread is theDemon of the Pin trying to drive poor Robinson's spirit?"
Average Jones shook his head. "'Pailidula, nudula, rigida,"' hecompleted the quatrain. "'Ghostpale, stark, and rigid.' He's got agrisly imagination, that pin-operator. I shouldn't care to have himon my trail."
"But Robinson!" protested Bertram feebly. "What has a plump,commonplace, twentieth-century, cutaway-wearing, flat-inhabitingRobinson to do with a Roman emperor's soul-questionings?"
"Perhaps the last entry of the lot will tell us. Palmerto'sMagazine's feature announcement, received November ninth. No; itdoesn't give any clue to the Latinity. It isn't bad, though. 'Thedarkness falls.' That's all there is to it. And enough."
"I should say the darkness did fall," confirmed Bertram. "Itfalls--and remains."
Average Jones pushed the collection of advertisements aside andreturned to the opening phase of the problem, the fish-bait circularwhich Robinson had mailed him. So long after, that Bertram hardlyrecognized it as a response to his last remark, the investigatordrawled out:
"Not such--er--impenetrable darkness. In fact,--er--Eureka, or wordsto that effect. Bert, when does the bass season end?"
"November first, hereabouts, I believe."
"The postmark on the envelope that carried this advertisement to ourfriend advises the use of the baits for 'these next two months.'Queer time to be using bass-lures, after the season is closed.Bert, it's a pity I can't waggle my ears."
"Waggle your ears! For heaven's sake, why?"
"Because then I'd be such a perfect jackass that I could win medalsat a show. I ought to have guessed it at first glance, from thefact that the advertisement couldn't well have been mailed toRobinson originally, anyhow."
"Why not?"
"Because he's not in the sporting-goods business, and theadvertisement is obviously addressed to the retail trade. Don't youremember: it offers a showcase, free. What does a man living in anapartment want of a show-case to keep artificial bait in? What we--er--need here is--er--steam."
A moment's manipulation of the radiator produced a small jet. Inthis Average Jones held the envelope. The stamp curled tip anddropped off. Beneath it were the remains of a small portion of aformer postmark.
"I thought so," murmured Average Jones.
"Remailed!" exclaimed Bertram.
"Remailed," corroborated his friend. "I expect we'll find theothers the same."
One by one he submitted the envelopes to the steam bath. Each ofthem, as the stamp was peeled off, exhibited more or lessfragmentary signs of a previous cancellation.
"Careless work," criticized Average Jones. "Every bit of the markshould have been removed, instead of trusting to the second stamp tocover what little was left, by shifting it a bit toward the centerof the envelope. Look; you can see on this one where the originalstamp was peeled off. On this the traces of erasure are plainenough. That's why Manila paper was selected: it's easier to erasefrom."
"Is Robinson faking?" asked Bertram. "Or has some one been riflinghis waste-basket?"
"That would mean an accomplice in the house, which would bedangerous. I think it was done at longer range. As for thequestion of our friend's faking in his claim of complete ignoranceof all this, I propose to find that out right now."
Drawing the telephone to him, he called the Caronia apartments.Thus it was that Mr. William H. Robinson, for two unhappy minutes,profoundly feared that at last he had really lost his mind. This isthe conversation in which he found himself implicated.
"Hello! Mr. Robinson? This is Mr. A. Jones. You hear me?"
"Yes, Mr. Jones. What is it?"
"Integer vitae, scelerisque-purus."
"I--I--beg your pardon!"
"Non egit Mauris jaculis nec arcu."
"This is Mr. Robinson: Mr. William H. Rob--"
"Nec venenatis grasida sag--Hello! Central, don't cut off! Mr.Robinson, do you understand me?"
"God knows, I don't!"
"If he doesn't recognize the Integer Vitae," said Average Jones in aswift aside to Bertram, "he certainly wouldn't know the more obscureLatin of the late Mr. Hadrian."
"One more question, Mr. Robinson. Is there, in all youracquaintance, any person who never goes out without an attendant?Take time to think, now."
"Why--why--why," stuttered the appalled subject of this examination,and fell into silence. From the depths of the silence he presentlyexhumed the following: "I did have a paralytic cousin who alwayswent out in a wheeled chair. But she's dead."
"And there's no one else?"
"No. I'm quite sure."
"That's all. Good-by."
"Thank Heaven! Good-by."
"What was that about an attendant?" inquired Bertram, as his friendreplaced the receiver.
"Oh, I've just a hunch that the sender of those messages doesn't goout unaccompanied."
"Insane? Or semi-insane? It does rather look like delusionalparanoia."
As nearly as imperfect humanity may, Average Jones appeared to besmiling indulgently at the end of his own nose.
"Dare say you're right--er--in part, Bert. But I've also a hunchthat our man Robinson is himself the delusion as well as theobject."
"I wish you wouldn't be cryptic, Average," said his friendpathetically. "There's been enough of that without yourgratuitously adding to the sum of human bewilderment.",
Average Jones scribbled a few words on a pad, considered, amended,and handed the result over to Bertram, who read:
WANTED--Professional envelope eraser to remove marks from used envelopes. Experience essential. Apply at once--A. Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple."
"Would it enlighten your gloom to see that in every New York andBrooklyn paper to-morrow?" inquired its inventor.
"Not a glimmer."
"We'll give this ad a week's repetition if necessary, before tryingmore roundabout measures. As soon as I have heard from it I'll dropin at the club and we'll write--that is to say, compose a letter."
"To whom?"
"Oh, that I don't know yet. When I do, you'll see me."
Three days later Average Jones entered the Cosmic Club, with thattwinkling up-turn of the mouth corners which, with him, indicatedsatisfactory accomplishment.
"Really, Bert," he remarked, seeking out his languid friend, in thelaziest corner of the large divan.
"You'd be surprised to know how few experienced envelope erasersthere are in four millions of population. Only seven peopleanswered that advertisement, and they were mostly tyros."
"Then you didn't get your man?"
"It was a woman. The fifth applicant. Got a pin about you?"
Bertram took a pearl from his scarf.
"That's good. It will make nice, bold, inevitable sort of letters.Come over here to this desk."
For a few moments he worked at a sheet of, paper with the pin, thenthrew it down in disgust.
"This sort of thing requires practice," he muttered. "Here, Bert,you're cleverer with your fingers than I. You take it, and I'lldictate."
Between them, after several failures, they produced a fair copy ofthe following:
"Mr. Alden Honeywell will choose between making explanation to thepost-office authorities or calling at 3:30 P. m. to-morrow on A.Jones, Ad-Visor, Astor Court Temple."
This Average Jones enclosed in an envelope which he addressed inwriting to Alden Honeywell, Esq., 550 West Seventy-fourth Street,City, afterward pin-pricking the letters in outline. "Just formoral effect," he explained. "In part this ought to givehim a taste of the trouble he made for poor Robinson. You'll bethere to-morrow, Bert?"
"Watch me!" replied that gentleman with unwonted emphasis. "Butwill Alden Honeywell, Esquire?"
"Surely. Also Mr. William H. Robinson, of the Caronia. Note that'of the Caronia.' It's significant."
At three-thirty the following afternoon three men were waiting inAverage Jones' inner office. Average Jones sat at his desksedulously polishing his left-hand fore-knuckle with the tenniscallous of his right palm. Bertram lounged gracefully in the bigchair. Mr. Robinson fidgeted. There was an atmosphere of tensionin the room. At three-forty there came a tap-tapping across thefloor of the outer room, and a knock at the door brought them all totheir feet. Average Jones threw the door open, took the man whostood outside by the arm, and pushing a chair toward him, seated himin it.
The new-comer was an elderly man dressed with sober elegance. Inhis scarf was a scarab of great value; on his left hand a superbsignet ring. He carried a heavy, gold-mounted stick. His face wascuriously divided against itself. The fine calm forehead and thedeep setting of the widely separate eyes gave an impression ofintellectual power and balance. But the lower part of the face wasmere wreckage; the chin quivering and fallen, from self-indulgence,the fine lines of the nose coarsened by the spreading nostrils; themouth showing both the soft contours of sensuality and the hard,fine line of craft and cruelty. The man's eyes were unholy.They stared straight before him, and were dead. With his entrancethere was infused in the atmosphere a sense of something venomous."Mr. Alden Honeywell?" said Average Jones.
"Yes." The voice had refinement and calm.
"I want to introduce you to Mr. William H. Robinson."
The new-comer's head turned slowly to his right shoulder then back.His eyes remained rigid.
"Why, the man's blind!" burst out Mr. Robins in his piping voice.
"Blind!" echoed Bertram. "Did you know this Average?"
"Of course. The pin-pricks showed it. And the letter mailed to Mr.Robinson at the General Delivery, which, if you remember, had theaddress penciled in from pin-holes."
"When you have quite done discussing my personal misfortune," saidHoneywell patiently, "perhaps you will be good enough to tell mewhich is William Robinson."
"I am," returned the owner of that name. "And do you be good enoughto tell me why you hound me with your hellish threats."
"That is not William Robinson's voice!" said the blind man. "Whoare you?"
"William H. Robinson."
"Not William Honeywell Robinson!"
"No; William Hunter Robinson."
"Then why am I brought here?"
"To make a statement for publication in to-morrow morning'snewspaper," returned Average Jones crisply.
"Statement? Is this a yellow journal trap?"
"As a courtesy to Mr. Robinson, I'll explain. How long have youlived in the Caronia, Mr. Robinson?"
"About eight months."
"Then, some three or four months before you moved in, anotherWilliam H. Robinson lived there for a short time. His middle namewas Honeywell. He is a cousin, and an object of great solicitude tothis gentleman here. In fact, he is, or will be, the chief witnessagainst Mr. Honeywell in his effort to break the famous HoldenHoneywell will, disposing of some ten million dollars. Am I right,Mr. Honeywell?"
"Thus far," replied the blind man composedly.
"Five years ago William Honeywell Robinson became addicted to apatent headache 'dope.' It ended, as such habits do, in insanity.He was confined two years, suffering from psychasthenia, withsuicidal melancholia and delusion of persecution. Then he wasreleased, cured, but with a supersensitive mental balance."
"Then the messages were intended to drive him out of his mindagain," said Bertram in sudden enlightenment. "What a devil!"
"Either that, or to impel him, by suggestion, to suicide or torevert to the headache powders, which would have meant the asylumagain. Anything to put him out of the way, or to make his testimonyincompetent for the will contest. So, when the ex-lunatic returnedfrom Europe a year ago, our friend Honeywell here, in some waylocated him at the Caronia. He matured his little scheme. Througha letter broker who deals with the rag and refuse collectors, he gotall the second-hand mail from the Caronia. Meantime, WilliamHoneywell Robinson had moved away, and as chance would have it,William Hunter Robinson moved in, receiving the pinprick letterswhich, had they reached their goal, would probably have produced thedesired effect."
"If they drove a sane man nearly crazy, what wouldn't they have doneto one whose mind wasn't quite right!" cried the wronged Robinson.
"But since Mr. Honeywell is blind," said Bertram, "how could he seeto erase the cancellations?"
"Ah! That's what I asked myself. Obviously, he couldn't. He'dhave to get that done for him. Presumably he'd get some stranger todo it. That's why I advertised for a professional eraser who wasexperienced, judging that it would fetch the person who had doneHoneywell's work."
"Is there any such thing as a professional envelope eraser?" askedBertram.
"No. So a person of experience in this line would be almost unique.I was sure to find the right one, if he or she saw my advertisement.As a matter of fact, it turned out to be an unimaginative youngwoman who has told me all about her former employment with Mr.Honeywell, apparently with no thought that there was anythingstrange in erasing cancellations from hundreds of envelopes--forHoneywell was cautious enough not to confine her to the Robinsonmail alone--and then pasting on stamps to remail them."
"You appear to have followed out my moves with some degree ofacumen, Mr.--er--Jones," said the blind schemer suavely.
"Yet I might not have solved your processes easily if you had notmade one rather--if you will pardon me, stupid mistake."
For the first time, the man's bloated lips shook. His evil pride ofintellectuality was stung.
"You lie!" he said hastily. "I do not make mistakes."
"No? Well, have it as you will. The point that you are to signhere a statement, which I shall read to you before these witnesses,announcing for publication the withdrawal of your contest for theHoneywell millions."
"And if I decline?"
"The painful necessity will be mine of turning over theseinstructive documents to the United States postal authorities. Butnot before giving them to the newspapers. How would you look incourt, in view of this attempt to murder a fellow man's reason?"
Mr. Honeywell had now gained his composure. "You are right," heassented. "You seem to have a singular faculty for being right. Becareful it does not fail you--sometime."
"Thank you," returned Average Jones. "Now you will listen, please,all of you."
He read the brief document, placed it before the blind man, and seta pin between his finger and thumb. "Sign there," he said.
Honeywell smiled as he pricked in his name.
"For identification, I suppose," he said. "Am I to assign no causeto the newspapers for my sudden action?"
A twinkle of malice appeared in Average Jones' eye.
"I would suggest waning mental acumen," he said.
The blind man winced palpably as he rose to his feet. "That is thesecond time you have taunted me on that. Kindly tell me mymistake."
Average Jones led him to the door and opened it.
"Your mistake," he drawled as he sped his parting guest into thegrasp of a waiting attendant, "was--er--in not rememberingthat--er--you mustn't fish for bass in November."