The words were followed by the noise of a struggle in the private office. A heavy chair was overturned, and then the second voice cried, “Help!” Every one of the clerks dropped his pen and started for the little door marked “Private,” but before one could reach it the door flew open with a bang, and a big man, wild-eyed and disheveled, appeared, struggling to shake off the hold of a smaller man with a sharp cast of countenance, who had a firm grip on his right arm, in the hand of which was grasped a cocked revolver. “I tell you I will do it!” cried the large man, in frenzied tones, making a violent effort to free himself. He swung Hartz, who was the head of the firm that occupied the offices, around as if he had been a feather, flooring three of the clerks, who went down like so many cornstalks before the sweep of the old-time scythe. And Hartz, losing his grip, went on top of them. The big man, then rushing clear of the group, raised the revolver to his head. But Jack, who had jumped to his feet at the commencement of the rumpus, divining his intention, cleared the rail at a bound and grabbed his arm just as he pulled the trigger. The sharp explosion mingled with the splintering of glass as the bullet grazed the would-be suicide’s temple and crashed through the window pane fronting on Exchange Place. Partly stunned, the desperate man staggered forward two or three feet and then sank down, while Jack succeeded in wrenching the pistol from his relaxed fingers. By this time Mr. Hartz and his clerks had picked themselves up and were looking with blanched faces at the fallen visitor, down whose pale countenance trickled a thin stream of blood, from which they seemed to infer that the big man had succeeded in destroying himself. The shot had aroused all the offices along the corridor, and brokers, clerks, visitors, and others came rushing out. Nobody knew exactly whence the report had come, but somebody opened Hartz’s door and looked in, and he saw enough to satisfy him of the true state of affairs. Others crowded in after him, and soon the intelligence flew through the building that a man had committed suicide in Broker Hartz’s office. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried Hartz, waving his arms. “Please don’t crowd in here. Schultz,” to a clerk, “telephone to the precinct station for an officer and a doctor. Gentlemen, I beg of you to stand back.” Jack, kneeling beside the big man, wiped the blood away from the scalp wound. “He’ll be all right in a minute or two,” said the boy to the excited broker, who seemed to have lost his head over the affair. “He didn’t kill himself, eh?” said Hartz, in shaky tones. “No; I grabbed the revolver in the nick of time.” “Where did the bullet go?” “It smashed one of your window panes.” “What have you done with the revolver?” “I’ve got it in my pocket.” “You’d better let me have it before he revives.”