was barely acquainted, flashed suddenly out in the lamplight.  Even in that lurid moment he kept his nerve.  He aimed at the right arm outstretched to strike him, and pulled the trigger.  Through the little mist of smoke he saw a spasm of pain in his assailant’s face, felt the thundering crash of his other arm, striking him on the side of the head.  The room spun round.  There was a second almost of unconsciousness....  When he came to, he was lying with his finger pressed against the electric bell.  Power was clutching the desk for support, and gasping.  The sober person in black, with a couple of footmen behind, were already in the room....  Their master turned to them.

“There has been an accident here,” he groaned, “nothing serious.  Take that gentleman and put him in the car.  It’s waiting outside for him.  Telephone round for Doctor Renshaw.”

For a single moment the major-domo hesitated.  The weapon was still smoking in Philip’s hand.  Then Power’s voice rang out again in furious command.

“Do as I tell you,” he ordered.  “If there’s one of you here opens his lips about this, he leaves my service to-morrow.  Not a dollar of pension, mind,” he added, his voice shaking a little.

The servant bowed sombrely.

“Your orders shall be obeyed, sir,” he promised.

He took up the telephone, and signed to one of the footmen, who helped Philip to the door.  A moment afterwards the latter sank back amongst the cushions, a little dizzy and breathless, but revived almost instantly by the cool night air.  He gave the chauffeur his address, and the car glided through the iron gates and down Fifth Avenue.

CHAPTER XI

Philip was awakened the next morning by the insistent ringing of the telephone at his elbow.  He took up the receiver, conscious of a sharp pain in his left shoulder as he moved.

“Is this Mr. Merton Ware?” a man’s smooth voice enquired.

“Yes!”

“I am speaking for Mr. Sylvanus Power.  Mr. Sylvanus Power regrets very much that he is unable to lunch with Mr. Ware as arranged to-day, but he is compelled to go to Philadelphia on the morning train.  He will be glad to meet Mr. Ware anywhere, a week to-day, and know the result of the matter which was discussed last night.”

“To whom am I speaking?” Philip demanded.  “I don’t know anything about lunching with Mr. Power to-day.”

“I am Mr. Power’s secretary, George Lunt,” was the reply.  “Mr. Power’s message is very clear.  He wishes you to know that he will not be in New York until a week to-day.”

“How is Mr. Power?” Philip enquired.

“He met with a slight accident last night,” the voice continued, “and is obliged to wear his arm in a sling.  Except for that he is quite well.  He has already left for Philadelphia by the early train.  He was anxious that you should know this.”

“Thank you very much,” Philip murmured, a little dazed.