I called Margaret softly. I searched cautiously through the halls, whispering her name. She was nowhere. At last I brushed against a hanging which, being withdrawn, disclosed the message itself on the floor. Its sheets were crumpled together, so that it was evident that some one else had read it. I suppose that the old servant had done so. If her curiosity was pardonable, so was my theft. I folded the paper and thrust it in my pocket as I sat down to wait. The minutes went by and many of them had gone before I heard some one in the back part of the house, descending the stairs. The breath of this person was labored like the breath of one who carries a heavy handbag. A little later I heard a door creak and a latch click below. Then all was still. The house was terribly still. The stillness beat as before, like a thing with feathery wings. The distant clock tick came and went between these flurries of silence. I looked at my watch. An hour had gone. It was growing dark. My patient chauffeur had lit his lights. Passers-by came and went, in and out of their white glare. I had smoked two cigars. [Illustration: SHE DID NOT SPEAK. SHE SEEMED IN DOUBT] Finally a pair of feet ran up the front steps. The bell rang. There was no movement in the house. It rang again. The feet on the steps stamped impatiently. Again the bell buzzed. The sound came from some unexplored region of the house, but the little thing made a shocking hubbub in that desert of silence. After this last vehement assault by the newcomer I heard a door open above. A man, burning one match after another to light his way, came down the stairs. When he had reached the bottom, I saw that it was Estabrook. His face was illuminated by the little flame, but a hundredfold more by an expression of happiness, the equal of which I have never seen. "Great Scott, Doctor," he cried in sincere surprise. "I forgot you were here!" "Come! Come!" said I. "Some one is wearing his thumb off on that bell." As he swung the door back, obeying me like a man in a dream, a voice outside mumbled indistinctly. "Yes," said Estabrook, "I am he." Then closing the door he came into the room, fumbling along the wall for the electric switch. The flood of light disclosed him trying to tear open an envelope. As he read the contents, his face grew black as if with rage, then it brightened again. He uttered an exclamation of pleasure. "Thank God!" he cried. "Here! Read this. It's from Margaret Murchie." I took the paper. "You will never see me again," it said. "I have gone to Monty Cranch. You won't ever see either of us again. He is going with me. We plan to finish life, what is left of it, together. We will never turn up again. You better not worry.