Peter Ruff, summoned by telephone from his sitting room, slipped down the stairs like a cat--noiseless, swift. The voice which had summoned him had been the voice of his secretary--a voice almost unrecognisable--a voice shaken with fear. Fear? No, it had been terror! On the landing below, exactly underneath the room from which he had descended, there was a door upon which his name was written upon a small brass plate--Mr. Peter Ruff. He opened and closed it behind him with a swift movement which he had practised in his idle moments. He found himself looking in upon a curious scene. Miss Brown, with the radiance of her hair effectually concealed, in plain black skirt and simple blouse--the ideal secretary--had risen from the seat in front of her typewriter, and was standing facing the door through which he had entered, with a small revolver--which he had given her for a birthday present only the day before--clasped in her outstretched hand. The object of her solicitude was, it seemed to Peter Ruff, the most pitiful-looking object upon which he had ever looked. The hours had dwelt with Merries as the years with some people, and worse. He had lost his cap; his hair hung over his forehead in wild confusion; his eyes were red, bloodshot, and absolutely aflame with the terrors through which he had lived--underneath them the black marks might have been traced with a charcoal pencil. His cheeks were livid save for one burning spot. His clothes, too, were in disorder--the starch had gone from his collar, his tie hung loosely outside his waistcoat. He was cowering back against the wall. And between him and the girl, stretched upon the floor, was the body of a man in a huge motor coat, a limp, inert mass which neither moved nor seemed to have any sign of life. No wonder that Peter Ruff looked around his office, whose serenity had been so tragically disturbed, with an air of mild surprise. “Dear me,” he exclaimed, “something seems to have happened! My dear Violet, you can put that revolver away. I have secured the door.” Her hand fell to her side. She gave a little shiver of relief. Peter Ruff nodded. “That is more comfortable,” he declared. “Now, perhaps, you will explain--” “That young man,” she interrupted, “or lunatic--whatever he calls himself--burst in here a few minutes ago, dragging--that!” She pointed to the motionless figure upon the floor. “If I had not stopped him, he would have bolted off without a word of explanation.” Peter Ruff, with his back against the door, shook his head gravely. “My dear Lord Merries,” he said, “my office is not a mortuary.” Merries gasped. “You know me, then?” he muttered, hoarsely. “Of course,” Ruff answered. “It is my profession to know everybody. Go and sit down upon that easy-chair, and drink the brandy and soda which Miss Brown is about to mix for you. That’s right.”