johns’s second visit to dr. blake was much briefer than the first.

the doctor had refused to advise further without direct consultation. “i must see the man,” he said decisively.

and when john had demurred, he had asked the patient’s name.

“simeon tetlow!” he said thoughtfully, but smiling a little. “why did n’t you tell me at first it was sim tetlow?”

“do you know him?” asked john.

“i knew him years ago, in college. he was n’t what he is now—more human blood. i knew him pretty well up to the time he was married.”

john looked up. “i did n’t know he was married!”

“a beautiful woman,” said the doctor, “too good for him—she died the next year—and the baby—that was twenty years ago and more........ so it’s sim! i might have guessed. there is n’t a man in a thousand miles that fits the case as he does—driving himself to death!”

the young man waited directions.

“send him to me,” said the doctor. “he ’ll come—yes. he won’t mind seeing me!” he laughed a little.

john started for home with lighter heart. simeon would obey the great doctor—and all would be well. he even slept a little on the way. but when the train reached bay-port, it was not yet three o’clock. he hesitated as he left the station. he had not expected to reach home before morning and his mother was not expecting him. she would be sure to waken—perhaps lie awake the rest of the night. he turned his steps toward the “r. and q.” office building. there was a cushioned settle in the little upper office; he had had it brought in lately—in the hope that simeon would use it. he would spend the rest of the night there, and be on hand in the morning.

he turned the key noiselessly in the lock and went in. the great building lay silent and shadowy as he made his way from room to room, up flight after flight of long stairs, guided only by the sense of touch and familiarity. the darkness about him seemed filled with whispers—plots, counterplots. he felt them vaguely, as he climbed—yet with a certain serenity of heart. simeon would see dr. blake. all would be right. let the master of the road once be master of himself and the shadows would melt. he crossed the upper loft and went into the little room. the air was stifling, after the freshness outside, and he threw open the windows, leaning out to breathe deep. he heard the roar of the engine coming into the yard on the still air and saw the lights gleam through the smoke.

it was a wonderful night. the deep september sky twinkled with stars and far below him, the city, dark and mysterious and sad, lifted its glimmering lamps. they broke the darkness, luminous, faint—like some inner meaning. the youth looking down had a sudden, quickened sense of power, vast issues, mighty interests. the city slept at his feet, beautiful, relaxed. fold upon fold of darkness wrapped it round and his heart went out to it—helpless there in the darkness—and in its midst, simeon—asleep or awake—waiting the new day. a fresh loyalty to the man swelled within him. the sleeping city touched him in a way he could not name—its mighty power cradled in the night in sleep.

he threw himself on the couch and slept.

it was the lightest click... but he sat up, his eyes fixed on darkness. the lock clicked again and the door swung open. he felt it move softly through the black, and close again. a footstep crossed the floor. john waited. he was leaning forward, staring before him, his slow mind wrestling with the sounds that came and went, lightly. he was unarmed. he had only his hands; he clinched them a little and felt the muscles swell behind them. he was not altogether defenceless!

the sounds puzzled him. they were methodical, deliberate—not as if finding out the way, but as if accustomed to the place and to darkness. ... simeon tetlow, himself?—the thought flashed at him and drew back. ... a light stole through the gloom—the focused glow of the electric pocket candle on a desk across the room—simeon’s desk.

john leaned forward, holding his breath.

... behind the candle, a vague form—a massive head and shoulders, bending above the lock of the desk.... the key was fitted in and the top lifted. then, for the first time, the man seemed to hesitate, his head turning itself a little in the shadow and waiting, as if disturbed. the glow of the candle suddenly went out and the steps moved stealthily. john straightened himself—the clinched hand ready.... the steps receded slowly and a hand fumbled at the open window, lowering it without sound and drawing down the thick shade. the man moved to the other window and closed it. the youth on the lounge caught the muttered sound of his own name, as if in imprecation.... then the steps again. ... and suddenly the soft candle—shining in the dark.

the man reached into the half-gloom of the desk for a ledger. he seemed to know without hesitation which he wanted. he opened it and fell to work, apparently in the middle of a page, the sinister eye of the candle traveling up and down the columns, the scratching pen transcribing figures to a kind of muttered accompaniment.

john recognized the book, in the shadowy light.... he ought not to have left it there. he had more than half guessed this thing before.... so this was the reason why hemenway & hill countermanded their order for fifty cars, a week ago, and gardner & hutchinson changed their mind about shipping their wheat the thirtieth... and this thing had been going on for weeks?—months?... no, it was only within six weeks that the book had been tampered with.... his mind ran back over the time, fitting each coincidence in place.... so this was it! it was state prison for the man.... but suppose he were not arrested?... suppose he were let to go free—in fear of his life.... john, watching, gauged the man, sitting there in the night, his busy pen writing his own doom.... he should go on sending the reports. the enemy should have their bulletin from day to day, but it should be compiled by john bennett. the scribe should have only the work of copying.... it might save time if the arrangement were completed now. he moved his hand a trifle toward the wall behind him, groping a little. the next minute the room was a blaze of light and the man at the desk was on his feet, stifling a quick cry—blinking at the looping bulbs of light. he made a swift step toward the door; but some one, broad-shouldered and smiling, stood against it.

“sit down, harrington,” said john quietly.

the man’s hands swung out blindly. then they fell to his sides. he was panting a little, as if he had come a long distance. but his eyes were fixed on john’s face with a little sneer. “think you ’re clever, don’t you!” he said doggedly.

“i wish i were,” said john, “though it does n’t seem to have done you much good,” he added after a moment.

the man’s fingers were fumbling at the desk, striving to gather up and destroy the papers jotted with figures.

“let those alone!” said john.

the fingers ceased their work, but they still moved restlessly, playing on the air. the sudden fright had done its work.... quietly, bit by bit, john laid the plan before him.

“but i tell you i don’t dare do it,” said the man. his voice was a kind of shrill moan.

“do you dare not to?” asked the young man.

there was silence in the room.

“all right.” it was crafty, with a sullen note just below the surface. “you give me the figures and i ’ll copy ’em and send ’em.”

“i will send them,” said john slowly, “and so long as you play fair, no one else knows it. but if you betray us by one breath—i give the matter over to president tetlow—”

the man had started. “no,—you won’t do that—no!” he was almost cowering before him.

john smiled a little, looking down at him. so it was still a name to conjure with! his mind wandered inconsequently to the bag of eggs on the high shelf and the egg-beater hanging on its nail behind the cupboard door. the man little knew that they were president tetlow. he was still a terror to evil doers. “one breath—and i tell him!” said john sternly.

the man shrank a little. “i ’ll do it,” he said. he, himself, could not have accounted for the fear that held him. he knew that the president of the “r. and q.” road was a broken man; he had sworn it to the manager of the c. b. and l.; but none the less he was afraid. a phrase that he had heard long since, stirred in his mind—“you don’t cross sim tetlow and live!” he wanted to live—the assistant bookkeeper—he desired earnestly to live—and to prosper. he had done his best for years—yet it seemed always to evade him.

“i ’ll do it all right for you—i ’ll act on the square,” he said magnanimously.

“oh, no—you ’ll do what you have to,” said john.

a sudden hatred of this young man flared in the assistant bookkeeper’s heart. then he remembered the look in nixon’s face—manager of the c. b. and l.—the day he had seen him last. it struck him that the two looks were curiously alike. “i hate nixon!” he said viciously, “i ’ll be glad to get one on him.”

“does n’t he pay you well?” asked john.

the man writhed a little. “that’s my affair,” he said.

“all right. keep it your affair,” said john. “he ’ll pay you—same as ever—and you ’re to take it.”

the man stared at him. his jaw had dropped a little. he moved toward the door. “you ’re a deep un. i don’t want anything to do with you.... i can’t face nixon—every month, i tell you. he’d kill me!”

“you face him—or simeon tetlow,” john said. “you take your choice.” he moved back from the door and the man stepped toward it. he opened it quickly and went out. the sound of his footsteps, hurrying as if pursued, died away in the outer loft.

the young man stood for a moment looking thoughtfully at the disordered desk. then he gathered up the papers and returned the ledger to its place. he locked the desk and turned off the blaze of light before he opened the windows. he stood looking down at the city in the mysterious night. then he threw himself on the couch and slept till the morning.