"Confound it!" he muttered, "why am I so shaky. _I_ didn't murder Tower. My whole life may be ruined by one false step!" He was still pondering irresolutely a visit to the club when Phillips came. The valet seemed flurried. "There's a gentleman outside, sir, who insists on seeing you," he said nervously. "He's a very violent gentleman, sir. He said if I didn't announce him he----" "What name?" interrupted Meiklejohn. "Name of Voles, sir." "Voles?" "Yes, sir, but he says you'll recognize him better by the initials R. V. V." Men of Meiklejohn's physique--big, fleshy, with the stamp of success on them--are rare subjects for nervous attacks. They seem to defy events which will shock the color out of ordinary men's cheeks, yet Meiklejohn felt that if he dared encounter the eyes of his discreet servant he would do something outrageous--shriek, or jump, or tear his hair. He bent over some papers on the table. "Send Mr. Voles in," he murmured. "If any other person calls, say I'm engaged." The man who was ushered into the room was of a stature and demeanor which might well have cowed the valet. Tall, strongly built, altogether fitter and more muscular than the stalwart Senator, he carried with him an impression of truculence, of a savage forcefulness, not often clothed in the staid garments of city life. Were his skin bronze, were he decked in the barbaric trappings of a Pawnee chief, his appearance would be more in accord with the chill and repellant significance of his personality. His square, hard features might have been chiseled out of granite. A pair of singularly dark eyes blazed beneath heavy and prominent eyebrows. A high forehead, a massive chin, and a well-shaped nose lent a certain intellectuality to the face, but this attribute was negatived by the coarse lines of a brutal mouth. From any point of view the visitor must invite attention, while compelling dislike--even fear. In a smaller frame, such qualities might escape recognition, but this man's giant physique accentuated the evil aspect of eyes and mouth. Hardly waiting till the door was closed, he laughed sarcastically. "You are well fixed here, brother o' mine," he said. The man whom he addressed as "brother" leaned with his hands on the table that separated them. His face was quite ghastly. All his self-control seemed to have deserted him. "You?" he gasped. "To come here! Are you mad?" "Need you ask? It will not be the first time you have called me a lunatic, nor will it be the last, I reckon." "But the risk, the infernal risk! The police know of you. Rachel is arrested. A detective was here a few hours ago. They are probably watching outside." "Bosh!" was the uncompromising answer. "I'm sick of being hunted. Just for a change I turn hunter. Where's the mazuma you promised Rachel?" Meiklejohn, using a hand like one in a palsy, produced a pocketbook and took from it a bundle of notes. "Here!" he quavered. "Now, for Heaven's sake----"