He was not prepared to have the door slammed in his face, yet that was what happened. He waited for five minutes, and then he heard the lock turn. This time he saw Anita. She wore a long green dress, smothered as usual with beading which glittered in the dim hall light. “What do you want?” she asked. “I want to speak to you privately.” “This is as private an interview as you’ll get,” she said coolly. The reflection of the hall light on her monocle produced an eerie illusion. It was as though she were glaring at him with one malignant golden eye. “What do you want?” she repeated. “If it’s money, you can’t have it. This is not a charitable institution or a home for convicts.” In the pause that followed he made a mental calculation as to the strength of the chain that held him from admission. He might at a pinch break it and force an entrance. He was prepared to go to any mad lengths to get the information he sought. “Where is my child?” he asked. Not a muscle of the big face moved. “I didn’t know you’d been raising a family. Surely I’m the last person in the world to be acquainted with your vicarious progeny.” “Where is Jane’s child? Perhaps you’ll understand that.” She had been taken aback by the first question, he was sure. The length of time that elapsed before she answered betrayed her. “So you know that, do you? The child? I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I have something better to do than to keep track of the indiscretions of my friends, and certainly I do not concern myself with the illegitimate children of convicted forgers----” “You lie,” said Peter quietly. “You know I was married to Jane.” Anita Bellini chuckled. “The marriage was illegal; didn’t you know that? You didn’t comply with certain formalities----” “I have seen Jane to-night. She has no doubt about its legality. Where is my son?” “Where you will never find him.” All the pent-up malignity of the woman suddenly took expression. Her face, never attractive, was contorted by rage to an appearance that was almost ludicrous. “Where you will never find him! In the slime and the mud where his father belongs; dead, I hope!” A sudden insane fury possessed him. He was scarcely human; saw the hateful face of this woman through a redness, and flung himself against the door. It jerked back with a crash and suddenly flew open. The chain had broken. To him she was no longer a woman, but some devil that had taken human shape. He wanted to kill her, to grip that big throat and choke the life out of her. As the chain broke, she stepped back, and he found himself looking into the black muzzle of a pistol. “Don’t move,” she said gratingly. “Don’t move, Peter Dawlish. I am justified in shooting you in the defense of my life.” She did not see his hand move. The pistol was struck down from her grip and fell with a clatter on the floor; and, in his mad anger, with murder in his heart, his hand was outflung. Then somebody called him. “Peter!”