"Ting-a-ling-ling," said Mr. Stephens' door-bell just before midnight.
Mr. Stephens glanced up in surprise from the paper which he was studying
and hesitated a moment. Who could be ringing his bell at that late hour?
Presently he stepped out into the hall, slipped the bolt and admitted
Theodore Mallery. The young man followed his employer into the
brightly-lighted library; it was the same room, with the same
furnishings that it had worn that evening when he, a forlorn, trembling
boy, had made his first call, and at midnight, on Mr. Stephens.

"What unearthly business brought you out at this hour?" said the
wondering Mr. Stephens.

"Premonitions of evil," answered Theodore, laughing. "Do you believe in
them?" And he glanced about the familiar room, and dropped himself into
the great arm-chair, where he remembered to have seated himself once at
least before.

"What is the matter with this room?" he asked, as his eyes roved over
the surrounding. "Something looks different."

"I have been having a general clearing out and turning around of
furniture since you were in--moved the books and rubbish out of that
corner closet for one thing, and prepared it for those closed ledgers.
Good place, don't you think?"

"Has it strong locks?" asked Theodore, glancing around to the closet in
question.

"Splendid ones, and is built fire-proof."

Theodore took in both the lock and the fact that the key was in it.

"An excellent place for them," he answered. "Is there anything in it
now?"

"No, empty. What brought you here, Mallery? I hope you have no more work
for me to do to-night. I was just thinking of my bed."

"A very little, sir. I have those papers ready for your signature, and
it occurred to me if you could add that to-night I could get them off by
the early mail."

"What an indefatigable plodder you are to get those papers ready so
soon, and an unmerciful man besides to make me go over them to-night.
What will ten or a dozen hours signify?"

"I don't know," answered Theodore, gravely. "Great results have arisen
from more trivial delays than ten or a dozen hours." Then he looked
straight before him, apparently at the mirror, but really at the closet
door. It was closed when he looked before; it was very slightly ajar
now. Wind? No, there _was_ no wind within reach; it was a surly November
night, and doors and windows were tightly closed.

"Then there is really no escape for me?" yawned Mr. Stephens, in an
inqu