Then she fell to speculating upon the identity and appearance of this man who bore this weird name of Scobbs. She pictured him an elderly man with chin whiskers who wore his pants thrust into top-boots. And why was Red Horse Valley so called? These unexpected and, to her, hitherto unknown names of places and people set in train most interesting processions of thought that slid through the noisy jangle of traffic, and coloured the drab walls of all that was visible of the City of London through the window with the white lights and purple shadows of dream prairies. When she looked at her watch--being impelled to that act by the indescribable sensation of hunger--she was amazed to discover that it was three o'clock. She jumped up and went to the outer office in search of the boy who, she faintly remembered, had erupted into her presence hours before with a request which she had granted without properly hearing. He was not in evidence. Evidently his petition had also been associated with the gnawing pangs which assail boyhood at one o'clock in the afternoon. She was turning back to her office, undecided as to whether she should remain until his return or close the office entirely, when the shuffle of feet brought her round. The outer office was partitioned from the entrance by a long "fence," the farther end of which was hidden by a screen of wood and frosted glass. It was from behind that screen that the noise came and she remembered that she had noted a chair there--evidently a place where callers waited. "Who is there?" she asked. There was a creak as the visitor rose. "Eggscuse, mattam," said a wheezy voice, "I gall to eng-vire for Mister Peale, isn't it?" He shuffled forward into view, a small man with a dead white face and a head of monstrous size. She was bereft of speech and could only look at him, for this was the man she had found in her rooms the night before her dismissal--the man who carried the Green Rust. Evidently he did not recognize her. "Mister Peale, he tolt me, I must gall him mit der telephone, but der nomber she vas gone oudt of mine head!" He blinked at her with his short-sighted eyes and laid a big hairy hand on the gate. "You must--you mustn't come in," she said breathlessly. "I will call Mr. Beale--sit--sit down again." "Sch," he said obediently, and shuffled back to his chair, "dell him der Herr Brofessor it was." The girl took up the telephone receiver with a shaking hand and gave the number. It was Beale's voice that answered her. "There's a man here," she said hurriedly, "a--a--the man--who was in my room--the Herr Professor." She heard his exclamation of annoyance. "I'm sorry," and if she could judge by the inflection of his voice his sorrow was genuine. "I'll be with you in ten minutes--he's quite a harmless old gentleman----" "Hurry, please."