On the arrival of the officers, however, they learned, to their surprise, that there was no desire for the colonel’s presence, and the manager flatly disclaimed having sent for him. The old soldier stared incredulously, his somewhat florid face taking on a deeper flush behind his gray military mustache. “Pardon me, Mr. Schilder”--he made little effort to conceal his irritation--“but do I understand you to say that it would have been impossible for any such message to be sent me from the foundry this evening?” The manager removed his cigar, and rose from his desk to face the other. “Positively so, colonel.” He spoke emphatically, and with a slight German accent. “There has been nobody in the office since six o’clock except myself and Miss Griffin”--with a wave of the hand toward his stenographer--“and we have been wholly engrossed in making up some arrears in correspondence.” “You hear, Grail?” The colonel turned toward his adjutant. “Are you responsible for this blunder? Got the name twisted, or something of that sort, eh?” “Hardly, sir.” The younger officer appeared no less perplexed than his superior, but his tone was one of firm conviction. “The note was written on a letterhead of the Dolliver Foundry, and was ostensibly from Mr. Schilder; I am familiar with his signature. As to the contents, I could not well have been mistaken. You remember, I read the message over to you twice. The contents make small difference, anyhow, since Mr. Schilder denies having sent us a communication of any sort.” “Small difference,” admitted the colonel, “except as offering a possible clew to the perpetrator of this hoax, for it cannot well be anything else, unless, indeed----” He paused abruptly, the umbrage he had shown giving way to something like concern. “Come, captain!” He addressed his companion a trifle peremptorily, at the same time backing toward the door. “We are detaining Mr. Schilder. Permit us to apologize for the interruption, sir, and let us----” At this point, a remarkable thing happened. The electric lights went out, cutting short the colonel’s apology, and shrouding not only the office, but the foundry yard outside in darkness. For a moment Grail was absolutely blinded; then, as his vision cleared and the square of the open doorway became faintly visible, he saw cut across it a tiny flash of fire like the glow of a lightning bug in flight. No other sight or sound punctuated the interval, and almost immediately the lights came on again. “Ah!” Schilder blinked before the sudden radiance. “The dynamo must have slipped a belt, or----” He halted, with a little gasp. “Why,” he exclaimed, “what has become of the colonel?” It was certainly astonishing. Not one of the three other occupants of the room had stirred. Grail and the manager stood in exactly the same position as before, and the stenographer still sat at her table with her fingers resting on the keys of her typewriter, but the colonel was gone.