Victor had had a long talk with him before going to Margaret. In fact, he had gone directly to Richard upon reaching the city the night before, a fact that had appealed insensibly to Richard's heart. He had not seen him since, and feeling vaguely uneasy, he had at last gone to the Massachusetts Avenue house, hoping to find him there and hoping also that by that time things might have been satisfactorily arranged. Mammy Cely's account of Margaret's condition made him distinctly apprehensive. It did not look as if a reconciliation had taken place, to say the least. He must find out first of all where Victor was. The office of De Jarnette and De Jarnette, Loans and Mortgages, was in the third story of the Conococheague Building on F Street, one of the finest in Washington at that time. They consisted of a large corner room, a smaller room at the side of this communicating with it, which was Victor's private office, and a still smaller one beyond this which he had had fitted up as a lavatory. All three opened upon the corridor,--Victor's room being nearest the stairway, which was alongside of the elevators. These offices were furnished in the most luxurious fashion and after Victor De Jarnette's faultless taste. The workroom of the firm was Richard's private office across the hall. In Victor's absence his rooms had been unused and untouched except by the man who did the cleaning. Richard De Jarnette had returned to the building with the intention of going directly to Victor's room, but when he opened his own door a letter left by the postman attracted his attention and he waited to read it. In the midst of the reading he was startled by the sound of a pistol. He threw the letter down and started for the hall. It had seemed to come from Victor's room. He rushed across to his door. It was locked. In a moment he had made his way through the front office into the back room. An appalling sight met his eyes. Victor lay on the floor near his desk, the blood trickling over the carpet from a hidden wound. And over him, with a revolver in her hand--the one he had seen on her desk--stood Margaret. As Richard's face appeared in the doorway she turned a ghastly, terror-stricken face upon him. "What is it? Who did it?" she gasped. "I--I picked this up." "Put it down," he said sternly, and pushed past her. In the hall hurrying steps were heard, and a confusion of voices. People were trying the door. Richard De Jarnette knelt beside a dying man, but there was a flash of recognition in the dimming eyes. "Victor! in God's name, what is this?" The wounded man's lips moved. His head was on his brother's arm and Richard's ear was close enough to catch the gasping whisper: "She's killed me, Dick." "What does he say?" cried Margaret. The words had been too faint to reach her, but she saw a look of horror come into Richard De Jarnette's face. "Who did it? How did it happen?"