The little clock on the mantelpiece clanged ten before they laid aside Napoleon and began to talk about something that interested Eddie Deever far more than all else--Elias Droom himself and such of his experiences as he cared to relate. The rid man told stories about the dark sides of New York life, tales of murder, thievery, rascality high and low, and he told them with blood-curdling directness. The Walker wife-murder; the inside facts of the De Pugh divorce scandal; the Harvey family's skeleton--all food for the dime-novel producer. Eddie revelled in these recitals even while he shuddered at the way in which the old man gave them. "Ah, this is a wicked old world," said Droom, refilling his pipe and showing his teeth as he puffed. "That's why I have those pictures of the Madonna on the wall--to keep me from forgetting that there are beautiful things in the world in spite of its ugliness and hypocrisy. I haven't much---" He stopped short and listened intently. The sounds of footsteps on the stairs outside came to his ears. They clumped upward, paused for a moment down the little hall and then approached Droom's doorway. Host and guest looked at the clock instinctively. Eddie heard Droom's breath as it came faster between puffs at his pipe. Then there was a resounding rap at the panel of the door. Eddie Deever never forgot the look that swept over the old man's face--the look of wonder, dread, desperation. It passed in an instant, and he arose unsteadily, undecidedly, to admit the late caller. His long frame seemed to shake like a reed as he stood cautiously inside the bolted door and called out: "Who's there?" "Messenger," was the muffled response. Droom hesitated a moment, looking first at Eddie and then toward the window. Slowly he unbolted the door. A small A. D. T. boy stood beyond. "What is it?" almost gasped Elias Droom, drawing the boy into the room. "Mr. Droom? No answer, sir. Sign here." The boy, snow-covered, drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Droom. "Where from?" demanded the old clerk, the paper rattling in his fingers. "I don't know. I'm from Chicago Avenue," said the boy, with proper impudence. He took one look at Droom's face as the man handed the slip back to him and then hurried downstairs, far less impudent at heart than he had been. Droom recognised the handwriting on the envelope as James Bansemer's. It was the first time his employer had communicated with him in this manner. He tore open the envelope and anxiously read the brief missive. "I've got to go to the office," he said, surprise still lingering in his face. "It's important business--a consultation with--er--with an Eastern client." "Gee, it's tough to turn out this kind of a night. I'm going your way, Mr. Droom. Come on, I'll take the car down with you." "I--I won't be ready for some time." "Oh, well, I'll say good-night, then."