ghtens me," he laughed. (Garvey must understand that at all
events.) "Nothing can frighten me," he repeated.

"I'm glad of that; for it frightens _me_ a good deal sometimes."

Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was aware that his heart was
beating a little quicker and that there was a sensation of chilliness in
his back. He waited in silence for what was to come.

"He has a horrible predilection for vacuums," Garvey went on presently
in a still lower voice and thrusting his face farther forward under the
lamp.

"Vacuums!" exclaimed the secretary in spite of himself. "What in the
world do you mean?"

"What I say of course. He's always tumbling into them, so that I can't
find him or get at him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for the
life of me I can't make out what he does there."

Shorthouse stared his companion straight in the eyes. What in the name
of Heaven was he talking about?

"Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or--or to escape?" he
went on in a louder voice.

Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression of the
other's face.

"I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum," he said
quietly.

"That's exactly what _I_ feel," continued Garvey with ever growing
excitement. "That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live
there? You see--"

"Have you ever followed him there?" interrupted the secretary. The
other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh.

"Never! It's impossible. You see I can't follow him. There's not room
for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He's out
of my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best side
of a bargain. He's a regular Jew."

"That is a drawback to a servant, of course--" Shorthouse spoke slowly,
with his eyes on his plate.

"A drawback," interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, "I call it a
draw-in, that's what I call it."

"A draw-in does seem a more accurate term," assented Shorthouse. "But,"
he went on, "I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, when
I was at school--though perhaps--it's so long ago--"

He hesitated and looked up. Something in Garvey's face--something he had
_felt_ before he looked up--stopped his tongue and froze the words in
his throat. His lips refused to move and became suddenly dry. Again the
mist rose before his eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil over
the face before him. Garvey's features began to