now--Markel?"

"N-no,"--Markel could scarcely chatter out the word.

"Quite so," said Jimmie Dale, in velvet tones. He stood for an
instant looking at the other with cool insolence; then: "Good-night,
Markel"--and five minutes later a great touring car was tearing New
Yorkward over the Long Island roads at express speed.

It was one o'clock in the morning as Jimmie Dale swung the car into a
cross street off lower Broadway, and drew up at the curb beside a large
office building. He got out, snuggled the cash box under his ulster,
went around to the Broadway entrance, glanced up to note that a light
burned in a fifth-story window, and entered the building.

The hallway was practically in darkness, one or two incandescents only
threw a dim light about. Jimmie Dale stopped for a moment at the foot
of the stairs, beside the elevator well, to listen--if the watchman was
making rounds, it was in another part of the building Jimmie Dale began
to climb.

He reached the fifth floor, turned down the corridor, and halted in
front of a door, through the ground-glass panel of which a light glowed
faintly--as though coming from an inner office beyond. Jimmie Dale drew
the black silk mask from his pocket, adjusted it, tried the door, found
it unlocked, opened it noiselessly, and stepped inside. Across the
room, through another door, half open, the light streamed into the outer
office, where Jimmie Dale stood.

Jimmie Dale stole across the room, crouched by the door to look into the
inner office--and his face went suddenly rigid.

"Good God!" he whispered. "As bad as that!"--but it was a nonchalant
Jimmie Dale to all outward appearances that, on the instant, stepped
unconcernedly over the threshold.

An elderly man, white-haired, kindly-faced, kindly-eyed, save now that
the face was drawn and haggard, the eyes full of weariness, was standing
behind a flat-topped desk, his fingers twitching nervously on a revolver
in his hand. He whirled, with a startled cry, at Jimmie Dale's entrance,
and the revolver clattered from his fingers to the floor.

"I am afraid," said Jimmie Dale, smiling pleasantly, "that you were
going to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur, Henry Wilbur, isn't it?"

Unmanned, trembling, the other stood--and nodded mechanically.

"It's really not a nice thing to do," said Jimmie Dale confidentially.
"Makes a mess, you see, too"--he was pulling off his motor gauntlet,
his ulster, his jacket, and, having set the