“Bolles, if you are not at my office inside of ten minutes, I’ll break you, and you know what I mean.”  McQuade hung up the receiver.  “He’ll be right over.  Now, what’s all this mystery about?”

“It regards some literary compositions of yours to which I have taken exception.”

“Compositions?”

“Yes.  Two anonymous letters.  But before we discuss them we’ll wait for our friend Bolles.”

McQuade signified that this was agreeable to him.  All the same, he glanced uneasily at the man near the door.  Bennington had not made the slightest sound after taking his chair.  His arms were folded across his breast, which rose and fell with deep intakes.  His face, in the shadow, was no more readable than that of the miniature sphinx paper-weight that rested on McQuade’s desk.  But Bolles was coming.  So they waited.  The end of McQuade’s cigar waxed and waned according to his inhalations.  These inhalations were not quickly made, as by a man whose heart is beating with excitement; they were slow and regular, it might be said, contemplative.  John’s gaze never left the end of that cigar.

The lights in the tall building opposite began to twinkle from window to window.  Warrington slipped off the table and pulled down the curtains.  McQuade knocked the ashes from his cigar, contemplated the coal, and returned it to the corner of his mouth.

Ah!  The three men heard steps in the hall.  The door to the outer office opened and banged.  But the man who squeezed past Bennington was not Bolles.

“Morrissy?” cried Warrington.  “Fine!  Have a chair, Mr. Morrissy, have a chair.”  Warrington was delighted.

Morrissy’s glance, somewhat bewildered, traveled from face to face.  On entering he had seen only McQuade’s tranquil visage.  He sat down, disturbed and mystified.

“What’s this?” Morrissy demanded to know.

“Hanged if I know!” said McQuade.  “These two gentlemen presented themselves a few moments ago and requested me to send for Bolles.  Have a cigar.”

Morrissy took the proffered weed, but he did not light it.  He turned it round and round in his teeth and chewed it.  Well, so long as the boss did not seem alarmed, the trouble could not be serious.  Yet he was not over-confident of Bennington’s lowering face.

“Been a fine day,” said Morrissy, at haphazard.

“Yes, but there’s going to be a storm to-night.”  Warrington resumed his position on the table.

Conversation died.  And then Bolles came in.  At the sight of Bennington he recoiled.

“Come in, come in!” said McQuade.  “Mr. Warrington will offer you a chair,” facetiously.

“Yes, Bolles, sit down.”

“Well, gentlemen, here’s a quorum;” and McQuade began to rock in his chair.  Three against two; that would do very well.

“I will go at once at the matter in hand.  Those letters, John.”  Warrington held out his hand.  “I’ll read one to you, McQuade.”  He read slowly and distinctly.