The men looked blank. Porter was the first to speak. “You don't mean--” “I mean to bring him up here,” I said blandly, rising from the table. “I suppose, though, it's my place as host to do the honors.” “No--no,” came in chorus from the men. “Come on, Porter--Fitzhugh--Wilson,” I said; and then added sharply, “sit down, the rest of you! We don't need a regiment to ask a man to dinner.” The others sank back into their seats, and the three I had named followed me meekly down the hall and stairs. I had never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Meeker face to face, but I doubted not that I should be able to pick him out. I was right. I knew him the moment I saw him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, long of arm, shifty of eye, and his square jaw was covered with a stubby red beard. His color heightened as we walked into the office and cut off the two doors of retreat. “An unexpected pleasure,” I said, giving him good day. His hand slipped to the side pocket of his sack coat, and then back again, and he made a remark in an undertone that I fear was not intended for a pleasant greeting. “There's a little dinner of a few friends going on up stairs,” I said politely. “Won't you join us?” Meeker scowled a moment with evident surprise. “No, I won't,” he growled. “But it is a sad case for a man to dine alone,” I said smoothly. “You will be very welcome.” “No, sir,” said he, looking furtively at my men drawing near, between him and the doors. “But I insist,” I said politely. Then I added in a lower tone meant for him alone: “Resist, you hound, and I'll have you carried up by your four legs.” His face was working with fear and passion. He looked at the blocked way with the eye of a baited animal. “I'll be damned first!” he cried. And seizing a chair he whirled around, dashed it through a window, and leaped through the jagged panes before I could spring forward to stop him. “Round in front, men!” I cried, motioning my followers to sally through the door. “Bring him back!” And an instant later I leaped through the window after the flying enemy. There was a fall of six feet, and as I landed on a pile of broken glass, a bit shaken, with the rain beating on my head, it was a few seconds before I recovered my wits. When I looked, no one was in sight. I heard the men running on the porch of the hotel, so the enemy was not to be sought that way. I set off full speed for the other corner, fifty yards away, half suspecting an ambush. But at the turn I stopped. The rain-soaked street was empty for a block before me. Far down the next block a plodding figure under an umbrella bent to the gusts of the wind and tried to ward off the driving spray of the storm. But Darby Meeker had disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him up. “Where is he?” cried Porter, the first of my men to reach my side. I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven't seen him.” “He didn't come our way--that I'll swear,” panted Fitzhugh.