“Does it hurt?” she asked. “It does if I try to walk on it,” wept the young man. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “We’ll telephone for a doctor, and he can take you home in a taxi.” The young fellow shamefacedly wiped his eyes. “But have you no idea how it happened?” asked Marchbanks anxiously. “I haven’t myself,” said the young fellow. At that moment the girl heard the low, eternal laugh right in her ear. She started, but could see nothing. She started round again as Marchbanks gave a strange, yelping cry, like a shot animal. His white face was drawn, distorted in a curious grin, that was chiefly agony but partly wild recognition. He was staring with fixed eyes at something. And in the rolling agony of his eyes was the horrible grin of a man who realizes he has made a final, and this time fatal, fool of himself. “Why,” he yelped in a high voice, “I knew it was he!” And with a queer, shuddering laugh he pitched forward on the carpet and lay writhing for a moment on the floor. Then he lay still, in a weird, distorted position, like a man struck by lightning. Miss James stared with round, staring brown eyes. “Is he dead?” she asked quickly. The young policeman was trembling so that he could hardly speak. She could hear his teeth chattering. “Seems like it,” he stammered. There was a faint smell of almond blossom in the air. [Transcriber’s Note: Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1926 issue of _Ainslee’s_ magazine.]