tton quietly.

"Write me a cheque for three hundred and fifty pounds then, and the
bargain is closed."

"Not for a penny," said Stratton quietly.

"You will. The lady is waiting."

"So are the police."

"What!" cried the man, rising slowly and with a menacing look in his
countenance. "No fooling, sir. You see this, and you know I shall not
be trifled with. Once more let me remind you that a noise here would
hardly be heard outside. But you are not serious. The prize for you is
too great. Police? How could you marry the lady then? Do you think my
proud, prudish little Myra would take you, knowing me to be alive?
Stop, will you?" he cried with a savage growl like that of a wild beast,
"or, by all that's holy--Here, what are you going to do, fool?"

"Summon the police," cried Stratton, who was half-way to the door, as
the man sprang at him with the activity of a panther.

For the next minute there was a desperate struggle, as the men wrestled
here and there, both moved by one object--the possession of the deadly
weapon.

Then one arm was freed, there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a
puff of ill smelling smoke partially hid the struggling pair.

Another shot with the smoke more dense.

A heavy fall.

Then silence--deathlike and strange.

Outside, on the staircase a floor higher, a door was opened; there were
steps on the stone landing, and a voice shouted down the well: "Anything
the matter?" After a moment another voice was heard: "Nonsense--
nothing. Someone banged his oak." There was the sound of people going
back into the room above, and in the silence which followed, broken only
by the faintly heard strain of some street music at a distance, the door
below, on the first floor landing, was opened a little way, the fingers
of a hand appearing round the edge, and a portion of a man's head came
slowly out, as if its owner was listening.

The door was closed once more as softly as it was opened, and the sun,
which had been hidden all the morning by leaden clouds, sent a bright
sheaf of golden rays through the dust-incrusted staircase window,
straight on to the drab-painted outer door, with the occupant's name
thereon in black letters:

Mr Malcolm Stratton.

CHAPTER THREE.

A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.

"Well?"

"You rang, sir."

"No, confound you! I did not ring."

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure, sir. Electric bell's a little out of order,
sir. Tell-tales show wrong numbers, si