simple blouse--the ideal secretary--had risen from
the seat in front of her typewriter, and was standing facing the door
through which he had entered, with a small revolver--which he had
given her for a birthday present only the day before--clasped in her
outstretched hand. The object of her solicitude was, it seemed to Peter
Ruff, the most pitiful-looking object upon which he had ever looked. The
hours had dwelt with Merries as the years with some people, and worse.
He had lost his cap; his hair hung over his forehead in wild confusion;
his eyes were red, bloodshot, and absolutely aflame with the terrors
through which he had lived--underneath them the black marks might have
been traced with a charcoal pencil. His cheeks were livid save for one
burning spot. His clothes, too, were in disorder--the starch had gone
from his collar, his tie hung loosely outside his waistcoat. He was
cowering back against the wall. And between him and the girl, stretched
upon the floor, was the body of a man in a huge motor coat, a limp,
inert mass which neither moved nor seemed to have any sign of life. No
wonder that Peter Ruff looked around his office, whose serenity had been
so tragically disturbed, with an air of mild surprise.

"Dear me," he exclaimed, "something seems to have happened! My dear
Violet, you can put that revolver away. I have secured the door."

Her hand fell to her side. She gave a little shiver of relief. Peter
Ruff nodded.

"That is more comfortable," he declared. "Now, perhaps, you will
explain--"

"That young man," she interrupted, "or lunatic--whatever he calls
himself--burst in here a few minutes ago, dragging--that!" She pointed
to the motionless figure upon the floor. "If I had not stopped him, he
would have bolted off without a word of explanation."

Peter Ruff, with his back against the door, shook his head gravely.

"My dear Lord Merries," he said, "my office is not a mortuary."

Merries gasped.

"You know me, then?" he muttered, hoarsely.

"Of course," Ruff answered. "It is my profession to know everybody. Go
and sit down upon that easy-chair, and drink the brandy and soda which
Miss Brown is about to mix for you. That's right."

Merries staggered across the room and half fell into an easy-chair. He
leaned over the side with his face buried in his hands, unable still
to face the horror which lay upon the floor. A few seconds later, the
tumbler of brandy and soda was in his hands. He drank it like