ere's your affadavy."

John Steele moved back to a corner of the room and pulled a wire; in
some far-away place a bell rang faintly. "Are----," he spoke a woman's
name, obviously a sobriquet, "and her daughter still here?"

"How?"

"Never mind; answer."

"Yes, they're here, gov'ner. You'll want them for witnesses, I suppose.
Well, I'll not be gainsaying you." His tones were loud; conveyed a sense
of rough heartiness; the other made no reply.

Not long after, the paper, duly witnessed, lay on the table; the
landlady and her daughter had gone; John Steele only waited for the ink
to dry. He had no blotter, or sand; the fluid was old, thick; the
principal signature in its big strokes, with here and there a splutter,
would be unintelligible if the paper were folded now. So he lingered;
both men were silent; a few tense minutes passed. John Steele leaned
against the wall; his temples throbbed; the fog seemed creeping into the
room and yet the door was closed. He moved toward the paper; still
maintaining an aspect of outward vigilance, took it and held it before
him as if to examine closer.

The other said nothing, made no movement. When the women had come in,
his accents had been almost too frank; the gentleman had called on a
little matter of business; he, Tom Rogers, had voluntarily signed this
little paper, and they could bear witness to the fact. Now all that
profanely free air had left him; he stood like a statue, his lips
compressed; his eyes alone were alive, speaking, alert.

John Steele folded the paper and placed it in an inside pocket. The
other suddenly breathed heavily; John Steele, looking at him, walked to
the door leading to the street. He put his hand on the key and was about
to turn it, but paused. Something without held his attention,--a
crunching sound as of a foot on a pebble. It abruptly revived misgivings
that had assailed him before entering the place, that he had felt as a
vague weight while dealing with the fellow. The police agent! Time had
passed, too great an interval, though he had hastened, hastened as best
he might, struggling with his own growing weakness, the other's reviving
power.

Again the sound! Involuntarily he turned his head; it was only an
instant's inattention, but Tom Rogers had been waiting for it. Springing
behind in a flash, he seized John Steele by the throat. It was a deadly,
terrible grip; the fingers pressed harder; the other strove, but slowly
fell. As dizziness b