He read and re-read. Here was more Efficiency! Undoubtedly she had put its real meaning to Anthony’s message. In his mind alarm replaced that mixture of irritation and reverence. “I thought this should be attended to at once, so have gone to the address given by Colonel Gethryn,” she had written. Aloud, Hastings heaped curses upon the loquacity of the artist with whom he had supped. He read the message and the note a third time, then jumped to his feet. That little white darling to go, alone and at such a time, to the house of a man who might be—well, a murderer! Of course, Anthony might only be after a possible witness, but—— He seized his hat and made for the stairs and Fleet Street. 3 Margaret lay huddled in the uncomfortable chair. For perhaps the hundredth time she choked back the scream which persisted in rising to her lips. Every suppression was more difficult than its predecessor. Still, though she seemed to have been looking down it for an eternity, the black ring which was the muzzle of the automatic stared straight into her eyes. The man had not moved. He was crouched upon the floor, no part of him steady save the hands which held the pistol. And he went on talking. Margaret felt that the rest of her life was a dream; that always, in reality, he had been talking and she listening. And the talk—always the same story. “You’re clever, aren’t you? Very clever, eh? ‘Who killed Hoode?’ you said to yourselves—you and your friends. I don’t know you, but you’re Scotland Yard, that’s what you are. Well, if you want to know _I did!_ See? But, my golden child, I’m not going to tell any one! Oh, no! Oh, no!” There was much more of words but none of sense. He went on talking, and always the burden of his whispering, his half-shouting, his mumbling, was the same. “I killed Hoode! But I’m not going to tell any one, oh, no! Thought he could play about with me, did he? Get rid of the man who was helping him, eh? Fool!” Once she had tried to rise, intending a wild dash for the front door she knew had not shut behind her. But the pistol had been thrust forward with such menace that ever since she had been as still as stone. Her right leg, twisted beneath her, was agony. Her head seemed bursting. At last there came a pause in the babbling talk. The man began to struggle to his feet. Margaret shrank back still farther into her chair. Even as he heaved himself upright the gun never wavered from her. Another scream rose in her throat, only to be fought back. He was up now, and coming towards her with wavering steps. Even in her terror she could see that his fever had increased. She prayed for his collapse as she had never prayed before. He was close, close! Margaret shut her eyes, screwing up the lids. She heard a rush of feet outside the door. Some one burst into the room. Slowly, unbelieving, she opened the blue eyes. Hastings stood in the doorway.