He retied the girdle of his dressing-gown, which had become unfastened, and opened the study door. Opposite, across the entrance lobby, was the outer door; and in the light from the lobby lamp he perceived two laughing eyes peering in under the upraised flap of the letter-box. The ringing ceased. “Are you VERY angry with me for interrupting you?” cried a girl's voice. “My dear Miss Cumberly!” said Leroux without irritation; “on the contrary--er--I am delighted to see you--or rather to hear you. There is nobody at home, you know.”... “I DO know,” replied the girl firmly, “and I know something else, also. Father assures me that you simply STARVE yourself when Mrs. Leroux is away! So I have brought down an omelette!” “Omelette!” muttered Leroux, advancing toward the door; “you have--er--brought an omelette! I understand--yes; you have brought an omelette? Er--that is very good of you.” He hesitated when about to open the outer door, raising his hands to his dishevelled hair and unshaven chin. The flap of the letter-box dropped; and the girl outside could be heard stifling her laughter. “You must think me--er--very rude,” began Leroux; “I mean--not to open the door. But”... “I quite understand,” concluded the voice of the unseen one. “You are a most untidy object! And I shall tell Mira DIRECTLY she returns that she has no right to leave you alone like this! Now I am going to hurry back upstairs; so you may appear safely. Don't let the omelette get cold. Good night!” “No, certainly I shall not!” cried Leroux. “So good of you--I--er--do like omelette.... Good night!” Calmly he returned to his writing-table, where, in the pursuit of the elusive character whose exploits he was chronicling and who had brought him fame and wealth, he forgot in the same moment Helen Cumberly and the omelette. The table-clock ticked merrily on; SCRATCH--SCRATCH--SPLUTTER--SCRATCH--went Henry Leroux's pen; for this up-to-date litterateur, essayist by inclination, creator of “Martin Zeda, Criminal Scientist” by popular clamor, was yet old-fashioned enough, and sufficient of an enthusiast, to pen his work, while lesser men dictated. So, amidst that classic company, smiling or frowning upon him from the oaken shelves, where Petronius Arbiter, exquisite, rubbed shoulders with Balzac, plebeian; where Omar Khayyam leaned confidentially toward Philostratus; where Mark Twain, standing squarely beside Thomas Carlyle, glared across the room at George Meredith, Henry Leroux pursued the amazing career of “Martin Zeda.” It wanted but five minutes to the hour of midnight, when again the door bell clamored in the silence. Leroux wrote steadily on. The bell continued to ring, and, furthermore, the ringer could be heard beating upon the outer door. “Soames!” cried Leroux irritably, “Soames! Why the hell don't you go to the door!” Leroux stood up, dashing his pen upon the table.