Immediately through the open door from the hall outside came Jack Warford, leading by the arm a strange and nondescript figure. It was that of a small, bent, old-looking man, dressed in a faded suit of brown. His hair was thin, and long, and white; his face sharp and lean. His gaze was fixed straight before him, so that every one in the room at the same instant caught the glare of his eyes. They were fixed, those eyes, like an owl's; or, better, a wildcat's, as though they never winked. From the pupils, which were very small, the little light-colored lines radiated across very large blue irises. There was something baleful and compelling in their glare, so that even Hallowell, cool customer as he was, forgot immediately all about the man's littleness and shabbiness and bent figure, and was conscious only of the cruel, clever, watchful, unrelenting, hostile spirit. As Jack dragged him forward, the others could see that one foot shambled along the floor. "Gentlemen," observed Darrow in his most casual tones, "let me present Monsieur X!" Every one exclaimed at once. Above the hubbub came Lyons' voice, clear and commanding. "The proof!" he thundered. "This is too serious a matter for buffoonery. The proof!" Percy Darrow raised his hand. Through the roar of the maddened city the bell of the Metropolitan tower was beginning its chimes. By the third stroke the uproar had died almost away. The people were standing still, awaiting what might come. The sweet-toned chimes ceased. There succeeded the pause. Then the great bell began to boom. _One--two--three--four--five--six_ came its spaced and measured strokes. The last reverberations sank away. Nothing happened. Percy Darrow let his hand fall. "The proof," he repeated, "is that you are still here." From the night outside rose a wild shriek of rejoicing, stupendous, overwhelming, passionate. Paige sprang across the room. "Release!" he shouted fairly in Simmons' ear. The spark crashed. And at a dozen places simultaneously bulletins flashed; at a dozen other points placarded balloons arose, on which the search-lights played; so that the people, hesitating in their flight in thankfulness over finding themselves still alive, raised their eyes and read: Monsieur X is captured. You are safe. At that a tumult arose, a tumult of rejoicing. Darrow had sauntered to the window, and was looking out. From the great height of the Atlas Building he could see abroad over much of the city. Here and there, like glowing planets, hung the balloons. "Clever idea," he observed. "I'm glad you thought of it." Hallowell was on his feet, his eyes shining. "I've got the only paper on the job!" he fairly shouted. "Darrow, as you love me, give me the story. Where was he? Where did you get him?" Darrow turned from the window, and sardonically surveyed Eldridge. "He was in the office next door," said he, after a moment. CHAPTER XXII THE MAN NEXT DOOR