"To your second question, my answer is, probably because he wanted it mailed from the main Post Office at about the time that Arbogast would leave the bank. To the first, I cannot yet give any positive answer, although, as you will presently see, there are some clues pointing to our unknown quantity 'X' as the author of this letter. But let us not anticipate. Suppose we return to our drama. When Arbogast read this letter, he evidently thought, as I do, that somebody was playing him false; that he was to be gotten rid of in some safer way than exile; in short that, as somebody said of one of the Turkish sultans, he was to be 'suicided.' He must have had strong reasons to suspect Chatham of treachery; for he at once impulsively jumped to the conclusion that his only chance of safety lay in striking before he could be struck. At any rate, while the accountant was busy at the telephone, Arbogast stood near this desk, mechanically tearing to pieces this letter, while he planned the accountant's death. He had taken with him your revolver. As the thought of it flashed upon his mind, his resolution was instantly taken. He stealthily crept to the paying teller's wicket. Through it he could see the telephone closet, the door of which stood open. Chatham was in direct range, as Arbogast raised the pistol, and, without a word of warning, fired. The accountant held the receiver of the telephone to his ear. This saved his life; for the bullet entered his left hand and remained embedded in his flesh. I shall show you the blood-stained receiver in proof of this assertion. When the bullet struck him, Chatham fell forward, striking his head against a corner of the telephone box, and inflicting a slight scalp wound. I found a few hairs of an intensely red hue, which are evidently his. I also found shreds of his clothing which caught on a projecting nail as he fell; and I infer from these his taste for loud dress. He recovered himself before Arbogast was ready to fire a second time and ran into the clerks' room, probably hoping to make his way to the street through the Exchange Place door. But at the same time, Arbogast rushed through the reception room and this office, reaching the vestibule in time to head off Chatham, who then turned back and ran through the secretary's room, with Arbogast in pursuit. In the meantime, 'X,' to whom I have already alluded, was waiting in Exchange Place, where Chatham had a cab. Upon hearing the pistol shot, he went to the accountant's assistance. He passed into this office, which he probably reached in time to see Chatham rush in from the secretary's room, closely followed by Arbogast. 'X' seized that chair over there in the corner and sprang between the hunted man and his pursuer as the latter raised his arm to fire. Our anonymous friend is probably a man of great strength; for with one blow of the chair, he broke the bookkeeper's wrist. The hammer fell; but the weapon was deflected, and the bullet, instead of reaching