“Sit down,” said Peter, smiling, his mouth a curving crack in a ghastly face. “Oh,” said the Worm, “you've heard?” “Heard what?” The Worm studied him a moment; then said, not without a touch of grave sympathy, “Tell me, Pete--do you happen to know where Sue is?” Peter heard this; tried to steady himself and speak in the properly casual tone. He swallowed. Then the words rushed out--low, trembling, all bitterness: “She's up-stairs--with Zanin!” The Worm turned away. Peter caught his arm. “For God's sake!” he said. “What is it? What do you want of her? If anybody's got to tell her anything, it'll be me!” And he pushed back his chair. The Worm laid a strong hand on his shoulder, held him firmly down in the chair. “Pete,” he said--quiet, deliberate--“if you try to go up those stairs I myself will throw you down.” Peter struggled a little. “But--but--good God! Who do you think you are! You mean to say--” He stopped short, stared up at the Worm, swallowed again. Then, “I get you!” he said. “I get you! Like the damn fool I am, I never dreamed. So you're after her, too. You, with your books, your fine disinterestedness, your easy friendly ways--you're out for yourself, behind that bluff, just like the rest of us!” The Worm glanced about the room. Neither had raised his voice. No one was giving them any particular attention. He relaxed his grip of Peter's arm; dropped into the chair opposite; leaned over the table on folded arms; fixed his rather compelling eyes on Peter's ashen face. “Pete,” he said, very quiet, very steady, “listen to me carefully. And don't spill any paranoia tonight. If you do--if you start anything like that crazy fight at the Muscovy--I'll take a hand myself. Now sit quiet and try to hear what I say.” Peter was still swallowing. The Worm went steadily on. “A neighbor of the Wilde's just now called up the apartment. They thought they might get Hy Lowe to find Sue and fetch her home. But Hy-” “He's--” began Peter. “Yes, I saw him. He's outside here. He wants to sit on the curbstone and read the evening paper. A couple of chauffeurs were reasoning with him when I came in. I'm going to find her myself.” “But what's happened! You--” “Her father has taken poison. They think he is dying. His wife went right to pieces. Everything a mess--and two young children. They hadn't even got the doctor in when this man telephoned. He thinks the old boy is gone.” “But--but--that's absurd! It couldn't act so quickly!” The Worm stared; his face set perceptibly. “It has acted. He didn't take the bichloride route. He drank carbolic.” “But that--that's awful!” “Yes, it's awful. There's a newspaper man there, raising hell. They can't get him out--or couldn't. Now keep this straight--if you go one step up those stairs or if you try to come out and speak to Sue before I get her away, I'll break your head.” “She'll send for me,” said Peter, sputtering. “Perhaps,” observed Henry Bates; and swiftly left the room.