In the first glance I noticed nothing out of the way. There was simply a large, unkempt room, littered with old chairs and odds and ends. By the door which faced the lake there was a small rowboat. Then my eyes fell upon a broken-down sofa, which was in one corner of the room and then I gave a quick gasp of horror, for there upon the broken-down piece of furniture lay a still figure—a person whose eyes were closed and whose face was very white. Below us upon the sofa lay the unconscious figure of the secretary. My first startled thought was that she was dead. But I saw the breast rise a little and knew that she was breathing. She did not move, however, and her eyes were closed. The white dress was stained with dirt, and half of the thin waist was torn away from her shoulder. One could see the white curve of her arm and the ivory whiteness of the half-exposed breast. Across the naked shoulder was a long red mark, either a cut or a scratch. The dress was far above her knees, and the rolled stockings exposed her legs, which were covered with dirt. The first startled thought had been one of surprise. Though Bartley had told us that it was his opinion the girl was in danger, yet for my part I had failed to believe him. But as I looked down upon the unconscious figure, I realized he had been right. Some one started to speak when in the rear of the room a door suddenly began to open. I watched the door as it swung slowly open, and then a man came into the room. His face I could not see, for he entered in a sideways position with the body bent far over. His hair was very much disheveled, and the black suit which he wore was a mass of wrinkles. Slowly, with his head bent low, he shambled over to the sofa and, with the hands hanging down, stood looking at the girl. The face I could not see, but as I looked at the uncouth figure, it began to dawn upon me that I knew who the man was. Suddenly he raised the long thin arms above his head and waved them in a threatening manner over the unconscious girl. For a few seconds he stood silent, then shuffled to the corner of the room and fumbled under a bit of sail cloth. He straightened, his face still hidden from my sight, and then to my consternation I saw he held in his hand—a knife. As he raised it above his head, the long thin steel caught the reflection from the electric light and glittered in a strange fashion. As if testing the force of his blow, he swept the knife downward through the air and then turned to gaze in a reflective manner at the form on the sofa. At the same second I saw Ranville, who was next to me, pull his revolver from his pocket. For some reason the man remained quiet a moment, then went very slowly to the opposite corner of the room. From where we were on the roof we were unable to see what he was doing. As I bent my face closer to the glass, Bartley suddenly spoke in a low voice: