“I suppose it was an oversight that you didn't send me a notice of the directors' meeting,” said Doddridge Knapp. Mr. Storey turned very red, and the King of the Street said in an undertone: “Just lock that door, Wilton.” “It must have been sent by mail,” stammered Storey. “Hi, there! young man, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as I turned the key in the lock. “Open that door again!” “No you don't, Storey,” came the fierce growl from the throat of the Wolf. “Your game is up.” “The devil it is!” cried Storey, making a dash past Doddridge Knapp and coming with a rush straight for me. “Stop him!” roared my employer. I sprang forward and grappled Mr. Storey, but I found him rather a large contract, for I had to favor my left arm. Then he suddenly turned limp and rolled to the floor, his head thumping noisily on a corner of the desk. Doddridge Knapp coolly laid a hard rubber ruler down on the desk, and I recognized the source of Mr. Storey's discomfiture. “I reckon he's safe for a bit,” he growled. “Hullo, what's this?” I noted a very pale young man in the doorway of the secretary's office, apparently doubtful whether he should attempt to raise an alarm or hide. “You go back in your room and mind your own business, Dodson,” said the King of the Street. “Go!” he growled fiercely, as the young man still hesitated. “You know I can make or break you.” The young man disappeared, and I closed and locked the door on him. “There they come,” said I, as steps sounded in the hall. “Stand by the door and keep them out,” whispered my employer. “I'll see that Storey doesn't get up. Keep still now. Every minute we gain is worth ten thousand dollars.” I took station by the door as the knob was tried. More steps were heard, and the knob was tried again. Then the door was shaken and picturesque comments were made on the dilatory president. Doddridge Knapp looked grim, but serene, as he sat on the desk with his foot on the prostrate Storey. I breathed softly, and listened to the rising complaints from without. There were thumps and kicks on the door, and at last a voice roared: “What are you waiting for? Break it in.” A crash followed, and the ground-glass upper section of the door fell in fragments. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” I said, as a man put his hand through the opening. “This revolver is loaded, and the first man to come through there will get a little cold lead in him.” There was a pause and then a storm of oaths. “Get in there!” cried Decker's voice from the rear. “What are you afraid of?” “He's got a gun.” “Well, get in, three or four of you at once. He can't shoot you all.” This spirited advice did not seem to find favor with the front-rank men, and the enemy retired for consultation. At last a messenger came forward. “What do you want?” he asked. “I want you to keep out.” “Who is he?” asked Decker's voice. “There's another one there,” cried another voice. “Why, it's Doddridge Knapp!”