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  CHAPTER VII. PIN-PRICKS

  "The thing is a fake," declared Bertram. He slumped heavily into achair, and scowled at Average Jones' well-littered desk, whereon he hadjust tossed a sheet of paper. His usually impeccable hair was tousled.His trousers evinced a distinct tendency to bag at the knees, and hiscoat was undeniably wrinkled. That the elegant and flawless dilettanteof the Cosmic Club should have come forth, at eleven o'clock of amorning, in such a state of comparative disreputability, argued anupheaval of mind little short of phenomenal.

  "A fake," he reiterated. "I've spent a night of pseudo-intellectual riotand ruin over it. You've almost destroyed a young and innocent mind withyour infernal palimpsest, Average."

  "You would have it," returned Average Jones with a smile. "And I seem torecall a lofty intimation on your part that there never was a cipher sotough but what you could rope, throw, bind, and tie a pink ribbon on itstail in record time."

  "Cipher, yes," returned the other bitterly. "That thing isn't a cipher.It's an alphabetical riot. Maybe," he added hopefully, "there was somemistake in my copy?"

  "Look for yourself," said Average Jones, handing him the original.

  It was a singular document, this problem in letters which had come tolight up the gloom of a November day for Average Jones; a stiffishsheet of paper, ornamented on one side with color prints of alluring"spinners," and on the other inscribed with an appeal, in print.Its original vehicle was an envelope, bearing a one-cent stamp, andaddressed in typewriting:

  Mr. William H. Robinson, The Caronia, Broadway and Evenside Ave., NewYork 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 perforations wereliberally scattered. Most, though not all of them, transfixed certainletters. Accepting this as indicative, Bertram had copied out all theletters thus distinguished, with the following cryptic result:

  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-s h-a-s 1S-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 how youcame by it."

  "Robinson came here twice and missed me. Yesterday I got the note fromhim which you've seen, with the enclosure which has so threatened yourreason. You know the rest. Perhaps you'd have done well to study thenote 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 had beenleft by the writer. It was addressed, in rather scrawly chirography, to"A. Jones, Ad-Visor," and read:

  THE CARONIA, Nov. 18.MR. A. JONES, Astor Court Temple: I have tried unsuccessfully to seeyou twice. Enclosed you will find the reason. Please read through itcarefully. Then I am sure you will see and help me. Money is no object.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'sobvious in his handwriting. Also, he has inverted one sentence inhis haste and said 'read through it,' instead, of 'read it through.'Otherwise, it's ordinary enough."

  "It must be vanity that keeps you from eyeglasses, Bert," Average Jonesobserved with a sigh. "Well, I'm afraid I set you on the wrong 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'd hadthe advantage of working on the original of the advertisement as I 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 eyes toconsider those alone, and you will see that the holes themselves formletters and words. Read through it carefully, as Robins directed."

  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 simply that hewas too frightened and rattled to know just what he was writing."

  "Know anything of him?"

  "Only what the directory tells, and directories don't deal in reallyintimate details of biography, you know. There's quite an assortment ofWilliam H. Robinsons, but the one who lives at the Caronia appears to bea commission merchant on Pearl Street. As the Caronia is one of themost elegant and quite the most enormous of those small cities withinthemselves which we call apartment houses, I take it that Mr. Robinsonis well-to-do, and probably married. You can ask him, yourself, if youlike. He's due any moment, now."

  Promptly, as befitted a business man, Mr. William H. Robinson arrivedon the stroke of twelve. He was a well-made, well-dressed citizenof forty-five, who would have been wholly ordinary save for onepeculiarity. In a room more than temperately cool he was sweatingprofusely, and that, despite the fact that his light overcoat was onhis arm. Not polite perspiration, be it noted, such as would have beenexcusable in a gentleman of his pale and sleek plumpness, but soul-wrungsweat, the globules whereof gathered in the grayish hollows under hiseyes and assailed, not without effect, the glistening expanse of histall white collar. He darted a glance at Bertram, then turned to AverageJones.

  "I had hoped for a private interview," he said in a high piping voice.

  "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, at histightly buttoned cut-away coat. It resisted his efforts. Suddenly, witha snarl of exasperation, he dragged violently at the lapel, tearingthe button outright from the cloth. "Look what I have done," he said,staring stupidly for a moment at the button which had shot across theroom. Then, to the amazed consternation of the others, he burst intotears.

  Average Jones pushed a chair behind him, while Bertram brought him aglass of water. He gulped out his thanks, and, mastering himself aftera moment's effort, drew a paper from his inner pocket which he placed onthe desk. It was a certified check for one
hundred dollars, made payableto 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. "Sit tightuntil 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've heard mystory--"

  "Just a moment, please," interrupted Average Jones, "let me get at thismy 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't driveme to that--unless they drive me crazy first." He wiped the sweat fromunder his eyes, breathing hard.

  "Who are they?"'

  Mr. Robinson shook his head. In the next question the interrogator'stone 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 your symptomsfrom him?"

  "Of course not. I see what you mean. Mr. Jones, I give, you my word ofhonor, as I hope to be saved from this persecution, I don't know anymore than yourself what it means."

  "Then--er--I am--er--to believe," replied Jones, drawling, as he alwaysdid when interest, in his mind, was verging on excitement, "that asimple blind threat like this--er--without any backing from yourown conscience--er--could shake you--er--as this has done? Why, Mr.Robinson, the thing--er--may be--er--only a raw practical joke."

  "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 letters which heplaced on the desk with a sort of dismal flourish.

  "Read those!" he cried.

  "Presently." Average Jones ran rapidly over the eight envelopes. Withone exception, each bore the imprint of some firm name made familiar byextensive advertising. All the envelopes were of softish Manila papervarying in grade and hue, under one-cent stamps.

  "Which is the first of the series?" he asked.

  "It isn't among those. Unfortunately it was lost, by a stupid servant'smistake, 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 of theSwift-Reading Encyclopedia, in a sealed envelope. There was a pin bentover the fold of the letter so you couldn't help but notice it. Its headwas stuck through the blank part of the circular. Leading from it werethree very small pins arranged as a pointer to the message."

  "Do you remember the message?"

  "Could I forget it! It was pricked out quite small on the blank fold ofthe paper. It said: 'Make the most of your freedom. Your time is short.Call at General Delivery, Main P. O., for your warning.' I--"

  "You went there?"

  "The next day."

  "And found--?"

  "An ordinary sealed envelope, addressed in pinpricks connected by pencillines. 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, elaborately whiskedfrom his coat sleeve an imaginary speck of dust, and smiled benignantlywhere 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 specification ofdementia 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 any drug?"

  "Never, sir."

  "Now," Average Jones took up the examination, "will you tell me of anyenemy 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 of athousand causes?"

  "No," answered the harassed man. "Not for me. My business runs smoothly.My relations are mostly dead. I have no friends and no enemies. My wifeand I live alone, and all we ask," he added in a sudden outburst ofalmost childish resentment, "is to be left alone."

  The inquisitor's gaze returned to the packet of letters. "You haven'tcomplained 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 'phone youpresently. 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 of ourfriend?"

  "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 General Deliveryfollow-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, asthe first message-bearing one was. Therefore, our mysterious persecutorsays: 'I'll just have Robinson prove it to me, if he did get the firstmessage, by calling for the second.' Then, after a lapse of time, hehimself goes to the General Delivery, asks for a letter for Mr. WilliamH. Robinson, finds it's gone, and is satisfied."

  "Yes, and he'd be sure then that Robinson would go through all themailed ads with a fine-tooth comb, after that. But why the pin-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 his envelopes bypinpricks filled in with pencil lines, the post-office people might getcurious and look into one. Sending threats through the mail is a seriousmatter."

  Average Jones ran over the letter again. "Good man, Robinson!" heobserved. "He's penciled the date of receipt on each one, like a fineyoung methodical business gent. Here we are: 'Rec'd July 14. Cardfrom Goshorn & Co., Oriental Goods.' Message pricked in through thecardboard: 'You are suspected by your neighbors. Watch them.' Not badfor 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 Croiset Linetours to the Orient. Listen here, Bert: 'Whither can guilt flee thatvengeance, 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 society announcement ofa lecture on Japanese Feudalism. Date, August seventeenth. Inscription:'If there is no blood on your soul, why do you not face your judges?"'

  "Little anti-climactic, don't you think?"

  "What about this one of September seventh, then? Direct reference ba
ckto the drug habit implied in the commitment blank. It's a testimonialbooklet of one of the poisonous headache dopes, Lemona Powders. Themessage is pricked through the cover. 'Better these than the hell ofsuspense.'"

  "Trying the power of suggestion, eh?"

  "Quite so. The second attempt at it is even more open. An advertisementof Shackleton's Safeguard Revolvers. Date, September twenty-second.Advice, by pin: 'As well this as any other way.'"

  "Drug or suicide," remarked Bertram. "The man at the other end doesn'tseem particular which."

  "There's the insane asylum always to fall back on. Under date ofOctober first, comes the Latherton Soap Company's impassioned appeal toself-shaving manhood. Great Caesar! No wonder poor Robinson wasupset. Listen to this: 'God himself hates you.' After that there's athree-weeks respite, for there's October twenty-second on this one,Kirkby and Dunn's offering of five percent water bonds. 'The commissionhas its spies watching you constantly.' Calculated to inspire confidencein the most timid soul! Now we come to the soup course: Smith andPerkins' Potted Chowder. Date of November third. Er--Bert--here'ssomething--er--really worth while, now. Hark to the 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 course itis! Hadrian's terrified invocation to his own parting spirit. 'Guest andcompanion of my body; into what places will you now go?' Average, it'suncanny! Into what place of darkness and dread is the Demon of the Pintrying 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 him onmy 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's Magazine'sfeature announcement, received November ninth. No; it doesn't give anyclue to the Latinity. It isn't bad, though. 'The darkness falls.' That'sall there is to it. And enough."

  "I should say the darkness did fall," confirmed Bertram. "It falls--andremains."

  Average Jones pushed the collection of advertisements aside and returnedto the opening phase of the problem, the fish-bait circular whichRobinson had mailed him. So long after, that Bertram hardly recognizedit as a response to his last remark, the investigator drawled out:

  "Not such--er--impenetrable darkness. In fact,--er--Eureka, or words tothat 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.' Queertime to be using bass-lures, after the season is closed. Bert, it's apity 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 medals at ashow. I ought to have guessed it at first glance, from the fact thatthe advertisement couldn't well have been mailed to Robinson originally,anyhow."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he's not in the sporting-goods business, and the advertisementis obviously addressed to the retail trade. Don't you remember: itoffers a showcase, free. What does a man living in an apartment wantof a show-case to keep artificial bait in? What we--er--need hereis--er--steam."

  A moment's manipulation of the radiator produced a small jet. In thisAverage Jones held the envelope. The stamp curled tip and dropped off.Beneath it were the remains of a small portion of a former postmark.

  "I thought so," murmured Average Jones.

  "Remailed!" exclaimed Bertram.

  "Remailed," corroborated his friend. "I expect we'll find the others thesame."

  One by one he submitted the envelopes to the steam bath. Each of them,as the stamp was peeled off, exhibited more or less fragmentary signs ofa previous cancellation.

  "Careless work," criticized Average Jones. "Every bit of the mark shouldhave been removed, instead of trusting to the second stamp to cover whatlittle was left, by shifting it a bit toward the center of the envelope.Look; you can see on this one where the original stamp was peeled off.On this the traces of erasure are plain enough. That's why Manila paperwas selected: it's easier to erase from."

  "Is Robinson faking?" asked Bertram. "Or has some one been rifling hiswaste-basket?"

  "That would mean an accomplice in the house, which would be dangerous.I think it was done at longer range. As for the question of our friend'sfaking in his claim of complete ignorance of all this, I propose to findthat out right now."

  Drawing the telephone to him, he called the Caronia apartments. Thus itwas that Mr. William H. Robinson, for two unhappy minutes, profoundlyfeared that at last he had really lost his mind. This is theconversation 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 your acquaintance,any person who never goes out without an attendant? Take time to think,now."

  "Why--why--why," stuttered the appalled subject of this examination, andfell into silence. From the depths of the silence he presently exhumedthe following: "I did have a paralytic cousin who always went out in awheeled 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 go outunaccompanied."

  "Insane? Or semi-insane? It does rather look like delusional paranoia."

  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 hunch thatour man Robinson is himself the delusion as well as the object."

  "I wish you wouldn't be cryptic, Average," said his friend pathetically."There's been enough of that without your gratuitously adding to the sumof human bewilderment.",

  Average Jones scribbled a few words on a pad, considered, amended, andhanded 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 trying moreroundabout measures. As soon as I have heard from it I'll drop in at theclub 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 erasers thereare in four millions of population. Only seven people answered thatadvertisement, and they were m
ostly 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. Comeover 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'recleverer with your fingers than I. You take it, and I'll dictate."

  Between them, after several failures, they produced a fair copy of thefollowing:

  "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 for moral effect,"he explained. "In part this ought to give him a taste of the trouble hemade for poor Robinson. You'll be there to-morrow, Bert?"

  "Watch me!" replied that gentleman with unwonted emphasis. "But willAlden Honeywell, Esquire?"

  "Surely. Also Mr. William H. Robinson, of the Caronia. Note that 'of theCaronia.' It's significant."

  At three-thirty the following afternoon three men were waiting inAverage Jones' inner office. Average Jones sat at his desk sedulouslypolishing his left-hand fore-knuckle with the tennis callous of hisright palm. Bertram lounged gracefully in the big chair. Mr. Robinsonfidgeted. There was an atmosphere of tension in the room. At three-fortythere came a tap-tapping across the floor of the outer room, and a knockat the door brought them all to their feet. Average Jones threw the dooropen, took the man who stood outside by the arm, and pushing a chairtoward him, seated him in it.

  The new-comer was an elderly man dressed with sober elegance. In hisscarf was a scarab of great value; on his left hand a superb signetring. He carried a heavy, gold-mounted stick. His face was curiouslydivided against itself. The fine calm forehead and the deep setting ofthe widely separate eyes gave an impression of intellectual power andbalance. But the lower part of the face was mere wreckage; the chinquivering and fallen, from self-indulgence, the fine lines of the nosecoarsened by the spreading nostrils; the mouth showing both the softcontours of sensuality and the hard, fine line of craft and cruelty. Theman's eyes were unholy. They stared straight before him, and weredead. With his entrance there was infused in the atmosphere a sense ofsomething 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. Hiseyes 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 me whichis William Robinson."

  "I am," returned the owner of that name. "And do you be good enough totell me why you hound me with your hellish threats."

  "That is not William Robinson's voice!" said the blind man. "Who areyou?"

  "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's newspaper,"returned Average Jones crisply.

  "Statement? Is this a yellow journal trap?"

  "As a courtesy to Mr. Robinson, I'll explain. How long have you lived inthe Caronia, Mr. Robinson?"

  "About eight months."

  "Then, some three or four months before you moved in, another William H.Robinson lived there for a short time. His middle name was Honeywell. Heis a cousin, and an object of great solicitude to this gentleman here.In fact, he is, or will be, the chief witness against Mr. Honeywell inhis effort to break the famous Holden Honeywell will, disposing of someten million dollars. Am I right, Mr. Honeywell?"

  "Thus far," replied the blind man composedly.

  "Five years ago William Honeywell Robinson became addicted to a patentheadache 'dope.' It ended, as such habits do, in insanity. He wasconfined two years, suffering from psychasthenia, with suicidalmelancholia and delusion of persecution. Then he was released, cured,but with a supersensitive mental balance."

  "Then the messages were intended to drive him out of his mind again,"said Bertram in sudden enlightenment. "What a devil!"

  "Either that, or to impel him, by suggestion, to suicide or to revert tothe headache powders, which would have meant the asylum again. Anythingto put him out of the way, or to make his testimony incompetent for thewill contest. So, when the ex-lunatic returned from Europe a year ago,our friend Honeywell here, in some way located him at the Caronia. Hematured his little scheme. Through a letter broker who deals with therag and refuse collectors, he got all the second-hand mail from theCaronia. Meantime, William Honeywell Robinson had moved away, and aschance would have it, William Hunter Robinson moved in, receiving thepinprick letters which, had they reached their goal, would probably haveproduced the desired effect."

  "If they drove a sane man nearly crazy, what wouldn't they have done toone whose mind wasn't quite right!" cried the wronged Robinson.

  "But since Mr. Honeywell is blind," said Bertram, "how could he see toerase the cancellations?"

  "Ah! That's what I asked myself. Obviously, he couldn't. He'd haveto get that done for him. Presumably he'd get some stranger to do it.That's why I advertised for a professional eraser who was experienced,judging that it would fetch the person who had done Honeywell'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. Iwas sure to find the right one, if he or she saw my advertisement. As amatter of fact, it turned out to be an unimaginative young woman who hastold me all about her former employment with Mr. Honeywell, apparentlywith no thought that there was anything strange in erasing cancellationsfrom hundreds of envelopes--for Honeywell was cautious enough not toconfine her to the Robinson mail alone--and then pasting on stamps toremail them."

  "You appear to have followed out my moves with some degree of acumen,Mr.--er--Jones," said the blind schemer suavely.

  "Yet I might not have solved your processes easily if you had not madeone 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 sign here astatement, which I shall read to you before these witnesses, announcingfor publication the withdrawal of your contest for the Honeywellmillions."

  "And if I decline?"

  "The painful necessity will be mine of turning over these instructivedocuments to the United States postal authorities. But not before givingthem to the newspapers. How would you look in court, in view of thisattempt 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, allof you."

  He read the brief document, placed it before the blind man, and set apin 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 cause tothe newspapers for my sudden action?"

  A twinkle of malice appea
red 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 my mistake."

  Average Jones led him to the door and opened it.

  "Your mistake," he drawled as he sped his parting guest into the graspof a waiting attendant, "was--er--in not remembering that--er--youmustn't fish for bass in November."