he
figure whispered into the transmitter--trembled the harder and waited
through minutes that were hours, while from behind Johnson Boller's door
came an irregular snore and an occasional groan, as some new fiend
sought to capture Beatrice's slender hand.

Suddenly a visible shock ran through the stealthy figure at the
telephone. The trembling ceased abruptly and the figure stiffened,
leaning forward eagerly and cupping a hand about the transmitter. Thrice
it whispered shrilly, nodding desperately at the uncomprehending
instrument; and at last the listener at the other end seemed to
understand, for the figure pressed lips even closer and spoke swiftly.

A full two minutes of sharp whispering and it waited--listened and
nodded animatedly--spoke again, enunciating each word clearly and still
so softly that one across the living-room could not have heard.

Without the suggestion of a click, the receiver was returned to its
hook. The figure rose cautiously and peered all about, through the
shadows, getting its bearings once more. Again the bathrobe was gathered
high above the grotesquely slippered feet; again the figure shuffled
along, moving toward the doorway.

Without a stumble it threaded its mysterious way between chairs and
little tables, divans and cases and pedestals, until it came safely to
the corridor. There it paused for an instant, and in the gloom the
faintest, excited giggle issued from beside the curtains. Then the
corridor doorway was empty, and Johnson Boller snored on and groaned.

At the end of the corridor David Prentiss's door closed and utter
stillness rested upon the apartment again.

* * * * *

After the skiing contest, although Johnson Boller did not seem to be
present at the end, all hands trooped off to a clubhouse of some kind
and there was a general jollification. Lovely women, handsome men
grouped about a long table, and waiters rushed hither and thither,
bearing viands and wine--although mostly wine.

He of the little blond mustache sat beside Beatrice, and as the
champagne came around for the second or third time he leaped from his
chair. Glass high held, he pointed to Johnson Boller's lovely wife with
the other hand; he was beginning a toast, the temperature and intimacy
of which caused Johnson Boller's fists to clench, and--he woke with a
violent jerk and stared at the ceiling.

It was daylight--had been daylight for some time, apparently, because a