serious," I whispered softly to myself. "There are two of 'em;
I am in the light, unarmed. They are concealed by the darkness and have
revolvers. There is only one way out of this, and that is by strategy.
I'll pretend I think I've made a mistake." So I addressed myself aloud.

"What an idiot you are," I said, so that my words could be heard by the
burglars. "If this is the effect of Aldus Club dinners you'd better give
them up. That click wasn't a click at all, but the ticking of our new
eight-day clock."

I paused, and from the corner there came a dozen more clicks in quick
succession, like the cocking of as many revolvers.

"Great Heavens!" I murmured, under my breath. "It must be Ali Baba with
his forty thieves."

As I spoke, the mystery cleared itself, for following close upon a
thirteenth click came the gentle ringing of a bell, and I knew then
that the type-writing machine was in action; but this was by no means a
reassuring discovery. Who or what could it be that was engaged upon the
type-writer at that unholy hour, 3 A.M.? If a mortal being, why was
my coming no interruption? If a supernatural being, what infernal
complication might not the immediate future have in store for me?

My first impulse was to flee the house, to go out into the night and
pace the fields--possibly to rush out to the golf links and play a few
holes in the dark in order to cool my brow, which was rapidly becoming
fevered. Fortunately, however, I am not a man of impulse. I never yield
to a mere nerve suggestion, and so, instead of going out into the storm
and certainly contracting pneumonia, I walked boldly into the library to
investigate the causes of the very extraordinary incident. You may rest
well assured, however, that I took care to go armed, fortifying myself
with a stout stick, with a long, ugly steel blade concealed within it--a
cowardly weapon, by-the-way, which I permit to rest in my house merely
because it forms a part of a collection of weapons acquired through the
failure of a comic paper to which I had contributed several articles.
The editor, when the crash came, sent me the collection as part payment
of what was owed me, which I think was very good of him, because a great
many people said that it was my stuff that killed the paper. But to
return to the story. Fortifying myself with the sword-cane, I walked
boldly into the library, and, touching the electric button, soon had
every gas-jet in the room giving forth a b