civilly. "Mr. Kent is not here. Do you
wish to leave any message?"

"Oh, good morning, Sylvester," McIntyre's manner was brusque. "When do
you expect Mr. Kent?"

"In about twenty minutes, Colonel." Sylvester glanced at the wall clock.
"Won't you sit down?"

McIntyre took the chair and planted it by the window. Never a very
patient man, he waited for Kent with increasing irritation, and at the
end of half an hour his temper was uppermost. "Give me something to
write with," he demanded of Sylvester. Accepting the clerk's fountain
pen without thanks, he walked over to the center table and, drawing out
his leather wallet, took from it a visiting card and, stooping over,
wrote:

You have but thirty-six hours remaining.
McIntyre.

"See that Mr. Kent gets this card," he directed. "No, don't put it
there," irascibly, as the clerk laid the card on top of a pile of
letters. "Take it into Mr. Kent's office and put it on his desk."

There was that about Colonel McIntyre which inspired complete obedience
to his wishes, and Sylvester followed his directions without further
question.

As the clerk stepped into Kent's office McIntyre saw a woman sitting
by the empty desk. She turned her head on hearing footsteps and their
glances met. A faint exclamation broke from her.

"Margaret!" McIntyre strode past Sylvester. "What are you doing here?"

Mrs. Brewster's ready laugh hid all sign of embarrassment. "Must you
know?" she asked archly. "That is hardly fair to Barbara."

"So Barbara sent you here with a message!" Mrs. Brewster treated his
remark as a statement and not a question, and briskly changed the
subject.

"I can't wait any longer," she pouted. "Please tell Mr. Kent that I am
sorry not to have seen him."

"I will, madam." Sylvester placed McIntyre's card in the center of
Kent's desk and flew to open the door for Mrs. Brewster.

As the widow stepped into the corridor she brushed by an over-dressed
woman, whose cheap finery gave clear indication of her tastes. Hardly
noticing another's presence she turned and took McIntyre's arm and
they strolled off together, her soft laugh floating back to where Mrs.
Sylvester stood talking to her husband.

CHAPTER XIII. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

Harry Kent rang the doorbell at the McIntyre residence for the fifth
time, and wondered what had become of the faithful Grimes; the butler
was usually the soul of promptness, and to