This time the smile came out in the open. I liked her immensely. She might make an ally. She would at least know what had happened in the office during the last few days. "Miss--?" "Miller," she added. "Miss Miller. I am a lawyer, and my sister is about to be accused of a terrible crime which she didn't commit. I think I know who did commit it, but so far I haven't been able to connect him definitely with the crime. I think you can help me. Will you?" "What makes you think I can help you?" she asked. "Because you are so situated you can observe the person I believe to be responsible for the crime," I replied. Her gaze changed from pleasant questioning to indignant surprise. When she spoke her voice was coldly final. "I think you have made a mistake in judgment of character. Please let me finish my work now." "Miss Miller, please don't think for a minute that I--" Behind me a door opened and, as I turned, I found myself looking into the wrathful eyes of a stunted little man with an enormous head. Any one who has once seen Zalnitch can never forget him. His wizened, misshapen body is a grotesque caricature of a man's, which, surmounted by his huge head with its bushy hair, makes him look for all the world like some scientist's experiment. In the doorway to Zalnitch's private office stood Schreiber, a heavy-jowled, unsmiling mastiff of a man. "What do you want that you should be keeping my stenographer from working?" Zalnitch's voice rose in a shrill crescendo. "Get out of here! You have no business here. Get out!" "Zalnitch, I came here to speak to you." "Get out!" he screamed. "I won't talk with you. I have no time to waste, even if you have. I know who you are. You're the brother-in-law of Felderson, the blood-sucking millionaire who sent me to jail. I won't talk with you, do you hear?" As he grew more excited I seemed to grow cooler. "Zalnitch, I'm going to swear out a warrant against you for my brother's murder." For a moment the little man blinked at me in amazement; then he threw back his head and laughed, a shrill, giggling squeak. With his fists he pounded his misshapen legs. "You arrest me for his murder? Hee-hee! You hear, Schreiber? He is going to--to arrest me!" Suddenly he stopped, as quickly as he had started. "Go ahead! Arrest me! Try to send me to prison again. I'll make you sweat blood before you are through. You think I killed him--your brother? I wish I had. I'd be proud to say I killed him! You hear? I wish I had killed him. I wish he were alive so I _could_ kill him." The little monstrosity emphasized each of his staccato sentences by stamping a puny foot on the floor. His gloating over Jim's death was more than flesh could stand. "Stop!" I yelled. "If it wasn't you that killed him, it was one of that murderous gang of cutthroats and anarchists that was with you. If it wasn't you, then it was Schreiber's son--that Prussian jail-bird, or one of his friends."