The door was opened promptly by a large, stalwart woman dressed as a servant. To this person the pretended Mrs. Ansel said: “Mrs. Ansel and Mr. Nicholas Carter, to see the person named on this.” She handed a small slip of paper to the servant. The servant closed the door and ushered them into the parlor, going out into another part of the house. She was back again in a few moments to say that the lady of the house was engaged for the present, but would see them shortly. Nick said to himself: “All this is well done, but what is the game?” In the meantime the pretended Mrs. Ansel showed every evidence of the natural nervousness that a woman placed in the position she pretended to be in might show. Nick had seated himself at a little distance from her, but shortly she beckoned him to a seat beside her on the sofa. “I don’t think I can stand this suspense,” she said. “It is all I can do to keep from fainting.” And no sooner had she said this than she reeled over, falling completely into Nick’s arms. At that very moment, a man whose face was blazing with anger, rushed into the room, crying: “So, I have tracked you at last. I have you with your paramour, in fact. You wretch!” To all appearances the woman had fainted dead away and did not hear the angry words. Nick lifted her up and laid her on the sofa where she lay as he put her, and stood up. “Who are you?” asked Nick. “Who am I?” repeated the other. “The deceived husband.” “Is your name Ansel?” “Yes. I am the husband of that wretched woman.” “Well, is the fact that a woman faints evidence against her?” “Don’t trifle with me, sir. I have followed you here. I knew she had an appointment with some one this morning. I watched and have found her in her guilt.” “In the house of the blackmailer known as the Brown Robin?” sneered Nick. At this moment the pretended Mrs. Ansel opened her eyes, started up, and cried out: “My husband! I am ruined!” Again she toppled off into a faint. “I suppose this is a well-worked game?” said Nick. “Well, play it to the end. How much do you want? Make it as easy as you can. I can’t afford much, but I can’t afford a scandal about my name.” As he said this, Nick carefully watched the Brown Robin, and was certain he saw first a look of surprise and then of triumph on what was supposed to be an unconscious face. “Money,” cried the man, “I want no money. Would money restore my wretched home, my happiness, the mother of my children?” Nick could hardly restrain a smile, for the man was clearly over-acting. But Nick kept up the pretense, for he wanted to see where the game was to lead to. “No; but you shall sign a confession. You shall give me the proof. You shall give me the means of tearing asunder these bonds that have now become hateful to me. “Here, sign this!” He drew a paper from his pocket, and, spreading it on a table, gestured in the most melodramatic manner to Nick to sign it. Nick crossed the room and took up the paper.