The rain beat a constant tattoo on the roof, and this, mingling with the drowsy purr of the cat, who was now marching to and fro with tail erect in front of Gethryn, exercised a soothing influence, and presently a snore so shocked the parrot that he felt obliged to relieve his mind by a series of intricate gymnastics upon his perch. Gethryn was roused by a violent hammering on his door. The room had grown dark, and night had come on while he slept. “All right—coming,” he shouted, groping his way across the room. Slipping the bolt, he opened the door and looked out, but could see nothing in the dark hallway. Then he felt himself seized and hugged and dragged back into his studio, where he was treated to a heavy slap on the shoulder. Then someone struck a match and presently, by the light of a candle, he saw Clifford and Elliott, and farther back in the shade another form which he thought he knew. Clifford began, “Here you are! We thought you were dead—killed through my infernal fooling.” He turned very red, and stammered, “Tell him, Elliott.” “Why, you see,” said Elliott, “we’ve been hunting for you high and low since the fight yesterday afternoon. Clifford was nearly crazy. He said it was his fault. We went to the Morgue and then to the hospitals, and finally to the police—” A knock interrupted him, and a policeman appeared at the door. Clifford looked sheepish. “The young gentleman who is missing—this is his room?” inquired the policeman. “Oh, he’s found—he’s all right,” said Clifford, hurriedly. The officer stared. “Here he is,” said Elliott, pointing to Rex. The man transferred his stare to Gethryn, but did not offer to move. “I am the supposed deceased,” laughed Rex, with a little bow. “But how am I to know?” said the officer. “Why, here I am.” “But,” said the man, suspiciously, “I want to know how I am to know?” “Nonsense,” said Elliott, laughing. “But, Monsieur,” expostulated the officer, politely. “This is Reginald Gethryn, artist, I tell you!” The policeman shrugged his shoulders. He was noncommittal and very polite. “Messieurs,” he said, “my orders are to lock up this room.” “But it’s my room, I can’t spare my room,” laughed Gethryn. “From whom did you take your orders?” “From Monsieur the Prefect of the Seine.” “Oh, it is all right, then,” said Gethryn. “Take a seat.” He went to his desk, wrote a hasty note, and then called the man. “Read that, if you please, Monsieur Sergeant de Ville.” The man’s eyes grew round. “Certainly, Monsieur, I will take the note to the Prefect,” he said; “Monsieur will pardon the intrusion.” “Don’t mention it,” said Rex, smiling, and slipped a franc into his big red fist. The officer pocketed it with a demure “Merci, Monsieur,” and presently the clank of his bayonet died away on the stairs.