A man was coming toward him. Just as he supposed, the man was another beggar. He asked for a dime. Chisholm realized it was dark where he was and thought perhaps a dime was cheap insurance against an argument. He stopped and groped in his change pocket for the coin. At that moment something happened. The beggar suddenly grasped his right arm, while another man stepped out of the bushes and grabbed his left. At the same instant someone from the rear locked an arm about his throat and lifted. He was off his feet and choking--skilled hands were exploring his pockets--he kicked and squirmed only to feel the viselike grip on his neck tighten maddeningly. There was an inward _plop_ and something cracked just under his skull with a sharp detonation and a blinding flare of light. Mr. Chisholm had been brutally mugged. Mr. Chisholm was quite dead. * * * * * Two hours and a quarter later a group of four were still waiting impatiently in the foyer of the Palace. An angry man from St. Louis sat in the back of a cafeteria eating his supper. He had not been met at the station as promised; neither the office phone, nor McKittrick's or Chisholm's home phones had answered. Not that he minded missing Chisholm particularly--he had always thought him a phony--but he did like the McKittricks. The party at the theater were equally angry, though they showed it less. "Well," remarked Mrs. McKittrick acidly to her husband in a moment when the others were occupied, "how much longer are you going to wait for that stuffed-shirt of a head salesman of yours?" "One minute--no more," said McKittrick, glaring at his watch. "If it's any comfort to you, he's being canned as of coming Monday. The office turnover since he's been in charge is something scandalous." In the other corner of the foyer the smartly gowned creature brought along for the delectation of Mr. Lonigan was growing restive also. She turned to Mrs. Chisholm. "Whatever could have happened to your husband?" she asked sweetly. "Drunk, I suppose," answered Mrs. Chisholm calmly. "I hope so. I hear this is a good show and I want to enjoy it, even if we have missed half the first act. My husband, you know, fancies himself as a dramatic critic. He is quite unbearable, I assure you." "Oh, really?" said the fair young thing. It was best to be noncommittal, she thought, though she had been secretly wondering for some time how long Mrs. Chisholm No. 3 was going to stick it out. No other Mrs. Chisholm had ever finished out the first year, despite the Chisholm legend of what a "way" he had with the gals. "Let's go on in," said Mr. McKittrick, pocketing his watch.