George pressed his lips tight. He frowned. Even now he hesitated to soil his hands, to divide himself, perhaps, permanently from Sylvia at the very moment of saving her; and he wasn't quite sure, in view of her pride and her quick temper, that his very effort wouldn't defeat its own purpose. If only Lambert hadn't made that worst of all possible blunders. He wondered how a man felt on the rack. He bent swiftly and picked up the telephone. "I shall talk with Dalrymple first," he said. "I'm going to ask him to come over here at once. I think he'll come." But Lambert shook his head, stopped him before he could take the receiver from the hook. "Isn't in the office. Hasn't been back since luncheon. Left no word then." "Perhaps since you've come away----" George hazarded. He telephoned, while Lambert wandered about the room, or paused to slip through his fingers the tape that emerged like a long and listless serpent from the now silent ticker. After a question or two George replaced the receiver and glanced at Lambert. "You're right. Sticks to the job, doesn't he?" "He isn't exactly an ordinary clerk," Lambert offered. George walked to a window. For a long time he gazed over the lower city, turned singularly unreal by the early dusk, while it outlined itself little by little in yellow points of light which gave to the clouds and the circling columns of steam a mauve quality as if the world, instead of night, faced the birth of a dawn, new, abnormal, frightening. He had to make one more effort with Dalrymple before sending Lambert to Sylvia with his reasons why she shouldn't marry the man. In the singular, unreal light he glanced at his hands. He had to see Dalrymple once more first---- He turned and snapped on the lights. "What are you going to do?" Lambert asked. "There's no likely way to catch him down town." A clerk tip-toed in. George swung sharply. "What is it, Carson?" "Mr. Dalrymple's outside, sir. It's so late I hesitated to bother you, but he said it was very important he should see you, sir." George sighed. "Wait outside, Carson. I'll call you in a moment." And when the door was closed he turned to Lambert. "I'm going to see him here--alone." "Why?" Lambert asked, uneasily. "I don't quite see what you're up to. No more battles of the ink pots!" "Please get out, Lambert; but maybe you'd better hang about the office. I think Dicky's gone for the night. Wait in his room." "All right," Lambert agreed. George opened the door, and, as Lambert went through reluctantly, beckoned the clerk. "Send Mr. Dalrymple in, Carson."