It was nearly midnight, and in a comfortably furnished office in the middle of the building, so that no light showed in the street outside, a venerable-looking old gentleman and a handsome young woman, the latter with a semitic cast of countenance, sat side by side examining some documents. A shaded electric reading-lamp on the table gave the only light in the room, and the documents lay in the ray which it shed immediately in front of them. Neither spoke. Both were working rapidly. First the old man would take a document off the pile, read through it carefully, then pass it to his companion, who, after quickly scanning its contents, would make a marginal note or two, and then docket it. Thus they continued in silence for over half an hour, when the pile of papers came to an end. The man leant back in his chair, stretched himself, and yawned. “We have had about enough of this, eh, Camille?” he said, turning with a curious expression to his companion. “Not half!” she answered with a foreign accent, which made the slang sound quaint. “_Après minuit_,” she added, glancing at her wrist-watch. “I call it crewel.” “Never mind; it can’t last,” he said. “Or at least it won’t if I have much to do with it. Give me one of your chipre cigarettes.” She took a cigarette herself and lit it, then handed him her case. The room in some respects resembled a boudoir rather than an office, but hung on its walls were charts marked with colored chalks. In all there were eight of these charts, and below each was a row of numerals. At one end of the room the framed portrait of a dark man with curly hair and a waxed mustache, a man obviously a foreigner, stood on the overmantle. In a corner near by were stacked twenty or more japanned tin boxes which might have been deed boxes, though none bore any name, while at the opposite end, close to the window, were several luxurious fauteuils, a comfortable settee, some occasional tables and Chippendale chairs. No sound of any sort found its way into the room. The man rose in silence, and began slowly to pace the floor. Suddenly he stopped. “This case interests me a good deal, Camille,” he said at last. “I feel sure she must have married the man.” “_Naturellement_,” the woman answered with a shrug. “And now she wish--how you say--to be rids of him?” “Rid of him, not ‘rids.’ But why?” “_Ma foi_, you ask me one more. He has much money, _hein_?” “It would seem so, judging by the sums he spends.” “_Alors naturellement._ What else?” “But proofs of the marriage have to be obtained, or she doesn’t get the money.” “Oh, the proof can be obtained. I obtain him.” “And what if----” He stopped abruptly. Both looked quickly towards the door. For some moments neither spoke. No sound broke the perfect stillness. “_Qu’est-ce que ca?_” the woman asked in a nervous undertone, putting her hand on his arm. Both were still staring at the closed door. “Wait, and I will see.” He rose, but the woman clutched him.