At last, after a few moments' scrutiny, Rupert broke into a curse. “You're laughing,” he cried. “I know that confounded, silent, shaky laugh of yours. What the deuce is the amusement, Basil? Here we are, all three of us, within a yard of a den of ruffians--” “But I shouldn't call the police,” said Basil. “We four heroes are quite equal to a host,” and he continued to quake with his mysterious mirth. Rupert turned with impatience and strode swiftly down the court, the rest of us following. When he reached the door of No. 14 he turned abruptly, the revolver glittering in his hand. “Stand close,” he said in the voice of a commander. “The scoundrel may be attempting an escape at this moment. We must fling open the door and rush in.” The four of us cowered instantly under the archway, rigid, except for the old judge and his convulsion of merriment. “Now,” hissed Rupert Grant, turning his pale face and burning eyes suddenly over his shoulder, “when I say 'Four', follow me with a rush. If I say 'Hold him', pin the fellows down, whoever they are. If I say 'Stop', stop. I shall say that if there are more than three. If they attack us I shall empty my revolver on them. Basil, have your sword-stick ready. Now--one, two, three, four!” With the sound of the word the door burst open, and we fell into the room like an invasion, only to stop dead. The room, which was an ordinary and neatly appointed office, appeared, at the first glance, to be empty. But on a second and more careful glance, we saw seated behind a very large desk with pigeonholes and drawers of bewildering multiplicity, a small man with a black waxed moustache, and the air of a very average clerk, writing hard. He looked up as we came to a standstill. “Did you knock?” he asked pleasantly. “I am sorry if I did not hear. What can I do for you?” There was a doubtful pause, and then, by general consent, the Major himself, the victim of the outrage, stepped forward. The letter was in his hand, and he looked unusually grim. “Is your name P. G. Northover?” he asked. “That is my name,” replied the other, smiling. “I think,” said Major Brown, with an increase in the dark glow of his face, “that this letter was written by you.” And with a loud clap he struck open the letter on the desk with his clenched fist. The man called Northover looked at it with unaffected interest and merely nodded. “Well, sir,” said the Major, breathing hard, “what about that?” “What about it, precisely,” said the man with the moustache. “I am Major Brown,” said that gentleman sternly. Northover bowed. “Pleased to meet you, sir. What have you to say to me?” “Say!” cried the Major, loosing a sudden tempest; “why, I want this confounded thing settled. I want--”