Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmie Dale opened a door, closed and locked it behind him—­and the electric switch clicked under his fingers.  A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights.  It was a large room, a very large room, running the entire depth of the house, and the effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of its appointments seemed to breathe a sense of charm.  There were great cozy, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-covered davenport, and an easel or two with half-finished sketches upon them; the walls were panelled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in the centre of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor was a dark, heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great, old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room.

For an instant Jimmie Dale remained quietly by the door, as though listening.  Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, like a well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about him—­the grace and ease of power in his poise.  His strong, clean-shaven face, as the light fell upon it now, was serious—­a mood that became him well—­the firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped.

Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up an envelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest lounging chair.

There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel.  It was precisely what he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken.  It was the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same old haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it.  Jimmie Dale’s hands turned the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it.  Wonderful hands were Jimmie Dale’s, with long, slim, tapering fingers whose sensitive tips seemed now as though they were striving to decipher the message within.

He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope.  Five closely written sheets fell into his hand.  He read them slowly, critically, read them over again; and then, his eyes on the rug at his feet, he began to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers, depositing the pieces, as he tore them, upon the arm of his chair.  The five sheets demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds on the arm of the chair and tore them over and over again, tore them until they were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet.

Then with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them down in a little pile, and set them afire.  Lighting a cigarette, he watched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred scrap; then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fender brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portiere from where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees in front of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe—­one of his own design and planning in the years when he had been with his father.