At three-thirty the following afternoon three men were waiting in Average Jones’ inner office. Average Jones sat at his desk sedulously polishing his left-hand fore-knuckle with the tennis callous of his right palm. Bertram lounged gracefully in the big chair. Mr. Robinson fidgeted. There was an atmosphere of tension in the room. At three-forty there came a tap-tapping across the floor of the outer room, and a knock at the door brought them all to their feet. Average Jones threw the door open, took the man who stood outside by the arm, and pushing a chair toward him, seated him in it. The new-comer was an elderly man dressed with sober elegance. In his scarf was a scarab of great value; on his left hand a superb signet ring. He carried a heavy, gold-mounted stick. His face was curiously divided against itself. The fine calm forehead and the deep setting of the widely separate eyes gave an impression of intellectual power and balance. But the lower part of the face was mere wreckage; the chin quivering and fallen, from self-indulgence, the fine lines of the nose coarsened by the spreading nostrils; the mouth showing both the soft contours of sensuality and the hard, fine line of craft and cruelty. The man’s eyes were unholy. They stared straight before him, and were dead. With his entrance there was infused in the atmosphere a sense of something venomous. “Mr. Alden Honeywell?” said Average Jones. “Yes.” The voice had refinement and calm. “I want to introduce you to Mr. William H. Robinson.” The new-comer’s head turned slowly to his right shoulder then back. His eyes remained rigid. “Why, the man’s blind!” burst out Mr. Robins in his piping voice. “Blind!” echoed Bertram. “Did you know this Average?” “Of course. The pin-pricks showed it. And the letter mailed to Mr. Robinson at the General Delivery, which, if you remember, had the address penciled in from pin-holes.” “When you have quite done discussing my personal misfortune,” said Honeywell patiently, “perhaps you will be good enough to tell me which is William Robinson.” “I am,” returned the owner of that name. “And do you be good enough to tell me why you hound me with your hellish threats.” “That is not William Robinson’s voice!” said the blind man. “Who are you?” “William H. Robinson.” “Not William Honeywell Robinson!” “No; William Hunter Robinson.” “Then why am I brought here?” “To make a statement for publication in to-morrow morning’s newspaper,” returned Average Jones crisply. “Statement? Is this a yellow journal trap?” “As a courtesy to Mr. Robinson, I’ll explain. How long have you lived in the Caronia, Mr. Robinson?” “About eight months.”