d for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced
the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author
of them.

"G---- d---- you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.

"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.

McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It
can't--be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He
was showing his early breeding now.

"I might 'a' known----," he said aloud, staring at the paper.

"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.

"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it
talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a
woman read it?"

"Yes."

"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my
affairs."

"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if
there's anything I can do----"

McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance
wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed
to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening
intently.

"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within
call."

The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely
bowed his head and obeyed.

"I suppose you're--you're curious about this message, Nichols--coming in
such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.

"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could
to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."

"He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've
got to put a stop to it--and to him."

"He speaks of coming again Friday night----"

"Yes--yes--Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard,
"I've got to do what he wants--this time--just this time----"

McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched
from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,

"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I--I'll have
to tell you more. I--I think--I'll need you--to help me."

Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the
imminent revelations.

"I may say that--this--this 'Hawk' is a--an enemy of mine, Nichols--a
bitter enemy--unscrupulous--a man better dead than alive. I--I wish to
God you'd shot him last night."

"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.

"I--I've got to do what he wants--this ti