The two men were standing in front of a small safe, which stood against one wall of the Doctor’s room. St. James held the old man by the wrist, and he had twisted his arm round in order to force him to produce the key. My little head master, white but resolute, was struggling furiously in the grip of the burly athlete. The bully glared over his shoulder at me with a mixture of fury and terror upon his brutal features. Then, realising that I was alone, he dropped his victim and made for me with a horrible curse. “You infernal spy!” he cried. “I’ll do for you anyhow before I leave.” I am not a very strong man, and I realised that I was helpless if once at close quarters. Twice I cut at him with my stick, but he rushed in at me with a murderous growl, and seized me by the throat with both his muscular hands. I fell backwards and he on the top of me, with a grip which was squeezing the life from me. I was conscious of his malignant yellow-tinged eyes within a few inches of my own, and then with a beating of pulses in my head and a singing in my ears, my senses slipped away from me. But even in that supreme moment I was aware that the door-bell was still violently ringing. When I came to myself, I was lying upon the sofa in Dr. McCarthy’s study, and the Doctor himself was seated beside me. He appeared to be watching me intently and anxiously, for as I opened my eyes and looked about me he gave a great cry of relief. “Thank God!” he cried. “Thank God!” “Where is he?” I asked, looking round the room. As I did so, I became aware that the furniture was scattered in every direction, and that there were traces of an even more violent struggle than that in which I had been engaged. The Doctor sank his face between his hands. “They have him,” he groaned. “After these years of trial they have him again. But how thankful I am that he has not for a second time stained his hands in blood.” As the Doctor spoke I became aware that a man in the braided jacket of an inspector of police was standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir,” he remarked, “you have had a pretty narrow escape. If we had not got in when we did, you would not be here to tell the tale. I don’t know that I ever saw any one much nearer to the undertaker.” I sat up with my hands to my throbbing head. “Dr. McCarthy,” said I, “this is all a mystery to me. I should be glad if you could explain to me who this man is, and why you have tolerated him so long in your house.” “I owe you an explanation, Mr. Weld--and the more so since you have, in so chivalrous a fashion, almost sacrificed your life in my defence. There is no reason now for secrecy. In a word, Mr. Weld, this unhappy man’s real name is James McCarthy, and he is my only son.” “Your son?”