There came, just before midnight, a thumping on the front porch door. They looked up, startled. The thump was repeated. Some one at the front door, demanding admittance. "Well," said Drake, "it's a wonder they wouldn't ring the bell! I'll go, father." We had an electric front doorbell, with the button prominently displayed. And also, on the door for ornament, an old-fashioned knocker. This summons was not even a knock; a thump, as though some one were pounding with the flat of his fist. It began again and continued. "What the deuce?" Drake muttered. He lighted the hall light; father followed him. Drake, with his six feet two inches of brawn, was, at the age of twenty-eight, afraid of no man. But a vague thrill of fear shot through him nevertheless as he went to the door and jerked it open. A man stood there; a tall, bulky figure, though not so tall as Drake--a man in a long, dark overcoat, with a black felt hat pulled down over his eyes. At first glance he was a rough-looking customer. "What do you want?" Drake demanded. "We've got a doorbell." "Does it--is Dr. Ferrule who lives here?" A soft voice; the queer accent of a foreigner. But Drake could not place the nationality; the voice and broken accent were like nothing he had ever heard before. The light fell on the man's face, heavy-jawed, hairless. A man of perhaps thirty-five. "Yes," said Drake. "Dr. Ferrule is here." Father was behind him. "For you, father." The man stood at the threshold. "Then you are Drake Ferrule? Is that true?" Father advanced. "Come in. What is it? You want to see me? I am Dr. Ferrule." The man came in. Though the door opening was two feet higher than his head, nevertheless he stooped as he passed it. He stood in the hall. "Dr. Ferrule, I would like to speak to you--and to this your son. This is Drake?" Drake said impatiently: "That's my name. Who are you? What do you want?" The visitor addressed father. "My name? You never heard it. My business? You had a daughter--" That electrified them. Drake caught father's warning glance and remained silent. Father was trembling. "My daughter--Dianne?" "Yes, Dianne." "Come in," said father. He led the man to the library. Drake followed behind, watchfully. He somehow sensed that this mysterious visitor was no friend. An antagonist of some sort. In the library the fellow stood with his hat on. He pushed back its brim as though it annoyed him. He stood ill at ease; his gaze roved the room. To Drake, watching him closely, it seemed that he was somehow expectant; and tense, afraid perhaps of something which might at any moment occur. "Sit down," said father. He was more than mysterious, this visitor. Weird. He stood carefully watching father sit down. Then he drew a chair forward and awkwardly sat upon it. As though he had never seen a chair before. The thought flashed to Drake. "Well?" said father.