He started to move towards her, aiding his trembling legs by scrabbling at the wall. Margaret felt a desire to scream; choked the scream back. She tried to burst into speech, to say something, anything, to tell one of her stories that she had been so proud of. She failed utterly. The man continued his spider-like approach. “Go back! Go back!” Margaret whispered. She was shaking, shaking all over. But the man had left the wall, and without its support had fallen to his knees. His head lolling with every movement, he crawled to the over-turned table and searched among the litter of newspaper beside it. Margaret cast longing eyes at the door. She tried to move, but her legs would not obey her. Fascinated by the horror of the thing, she looked down at the man. Her eye caught heavy headlines on the tumbled papers. “Abbotshall Murder! Cabinet Minister Assassinated! Horrible Atrocity! Is it Bolshevism?” they shrieked in letters two inches high. And the man—this man Masterson—had found what he wanted. He sat grotesquely on the carpet, holding in both hands the butt of a heavy automatic pistol. The barrel pointed straight at Margaret’s head. A queer, sick feeling came over her. She felt her knees grow weak beneath her. “Sit down. Sit down, will you!” The man’s tones were harsh, cracked—the voice of one ill to the point of collapse. 2 Spencer Hastings stood disconsolate on the threshold of the editorial chamber. He had supped with a friend who was an artist. The artist had talked. Spencer Hastings had been later than he had intended in returning to the office. When he did—she had gone. “Damn it! Oh, damn it!” he said fervently. One must sympathise with him. He was ashamed, bitterly ashamed, of himself. For the ten thousandth time he thought it all over. Hell! He was badly in love with the woman, why didn’t he grab hold of her and tell her so? Why was it that he couldn’t? Because he was afraid. Afraid of her aloof beauty, her completeness, her thrice-to-be-damned efficiency—how he loathed that word beloved of Babbitts! If only she weren’t quite so—so infernally and perpetually equal to the situation! Yes, he was afraid, that’s what it was! He, Spencer Sutherland Hastings, sometimes the fastest three-quarter in England, sometime something of an ace in the Flying Corps, renowned in old days for his easy conquest of Woman, he was afraid! Afraid forsooth of a little slip of a thing he could almost hang on his watch-chain! Disgusting, he found himself! He flitted dejectedly about the room. Should he go home? No, he’d better do some work; there’d be an easy time coming soon. He crossed the room and sat down at his table. Two slips of paper, both covered with Margaret’s clear, decisive handwriting, stared up at him.