"I do not propose to attack you now."

And he turned and left the managing editor's little office,
closing the door behind him.

The managing editor tiptoed over to the door and, with the
scissors still grasped in one hand, opened it about a quarter of
an inch. Through this crack Wharton saw Cleggett walk jauntily
towards the corner where his hat and coat were hanging. Cleggett
took off his worn office jacket, rolled it into a ball, and flung
it into a waste paper basket. He put on his street coat and hat
and picked up the drab-colored cane. Swinging the stick he moved
towards the door into the hall. In the doorway he paused, cocked
his hat a trifle, turned towards the managing editor's door,
raised his hand with his pipe in it with the manner of one who
points a dueling pistol, took careful aim at the second button of
the managing editor's waistcoat, and clucked. At the cluck the
managing editor drew back hastily, as if Cleggett had actually
presented a firearm; Cleggett's manner was so rapt and fatal that
it carried conviction. Then Cleggett laughed, cocked his hat on
the other side of his head and went out into the corridor
whistling. Whistling, and, since faults as well as virtues must
be told, swaggering just a little.

When the managing editor had heard the elevator come up, pause,
and go down again, he went out of his room and said to the city
editor:

"Mr. Herbert, don't ever let that man Cleggett into this office
again. He is off--off mentally. He's a dangerous man. He's a