"The poor dear," murmured Mrs. Steuvisant, after Walcott had helped
them to the carriage and turned to go up the steps of the club,--
"The poor dear is hard hit, and men are such funny creatures when
they are hard hit."

Samuel Walcott, as his fate would, went direct to the private
writing-room and opened the door. The lights were not turned on
and in the dark he did not see Mason motionless by the mantel-
shelf. He went quickly across the room to the writing-table,
turned on one of the lights, and, taking the envelope from his
pocket, tore it open. Then he bent down by the light to read the
contents. As his eyes ran over the paper, his jaw fell. The skin
drew away from his cheekbones and his face seemed literally to sink
in. His knees gave way under him and he would have gone down in a
heap had it not been for Mason's long arms that closed around him
and held him up. The human economy is ever mysterious. The moment
the new danger threatened, the latent power of the man as an
animal, hidden away in the centers of intelligence, asserted
itself. His hand clutched the paper and, with a half slide, he
turned in Mason's arms. For a moment he stared up at the ugly man
whose thin arms felt like wire ropes.

"You are under the dead-fall, aye," said Mason. "The cunning of my
enemy is sublime."

"Your enemy?" gasped Walcott. "When did you come into it? How in
God's name did you know it? How your enemy?"

Mason looked down at the wide bulging eyes of the man.