From the darkness of the outer office a man stepped softly into the circle of the lamp. They could see his figure only from the waist down; the rest of him was blurred in shadows. "'It is the end'?" he repeated inquiringly. He spoke the phrase with peculiar emphasis, as though to impress it upon the memory of the two others. His voice was cool, alert, authoritative. "The end of what?" he demanded sharply. The question was most difficult. In the silence the detective moved into the light. He was tall and strongly built, his face was shrewd and intelligent. He might have been a prosperous man of business. "Which of you is the consul?" he asked. But he did not take his eyes from Hemingway. "I am the consul," said Harris. But still the detective did not turn from Hemingway. "Why," he asked, "did this gentleman, when he read my card, say, 'It is the end'? The end of what? Has anything been going on here that came to an end when he saw my card?" Disconcerted, in deep embarrassment, Harris struggled for a word. But his distress was not observed by the detective. His eyes, suspicious and accusing, still were fixed upon Hemingway, and under their scrutiny Harris saw his friend slowly retreat, slowly crumple up into a chair, slowly raise his hands to cover his face. As though in a nightmare, he heard him saying savagely: "It is the end of two years of hell, it is the end of two years of fear and agony! Now I shall have peace. Now I shall sleep! I thank God you've come! I thank God I can go back!" Harris broke the spell by leaping to his feet. He sprang between the two men. "What does this mean?" he commanded. Hemingway raised his eyes and surveyed him steadily. "It means," he said, "that I have deceived you, Harris--that I am the man you told me of, I am the man they want." He turned to the officer. "I fooled him for four months," he said. "I couldn't fool you for five minutes." The eyes of the detective danced with sudden excitement, joy, and triumph. He shot an eager glance from Hemingway to the consul. "This man," he demanded; "who is he?" With an impatient gesture Hemingway signified Harris. "He doesn't know who I am," he said. "He knows me as Hemingway. I am Henry Brownell, of Waltham, Mass." Again his face sank into the palms of his hands. "And I'm tired--tired," he moaned. "I am sick of not knowing, sick of running away. I give myself up." The detective breathed a sigh of relief that seemed to issue from his soul. "My God," he sighed, "you've given me a long chase! I've had eleven months of you, and I'm as sick of this as you are." He recovered himself sharply. As though reciting an incantation, he addressed Hemingway in crisp, emotionless notes.