Even as Percy Guest rushed at his friend’s door to bring one foot against the lock with all his might, he felt the futility of the proceeding. For he knew how solid the old oak outer panels had been made; but he did not pause, and as his foot struck against it there was a dull sound—nothing more.

Guest drew back again, fully impressed by the hopelessness of his proceedings, for the outer door opened toward him, and the effect of his next thrust was only to drive it against the jamb.

He was recoiling again, with his muscles quivering from the violence of his efforts, when Miss Jerrold caught his arm.

“Mr Guest,” she said firmly, “this is madness. You will bring a crowd of people about us, and only workmen could open that door.”

Guest hesitated a moment or two.

“Stop!” he said. “His friend, Mr Brettison, is in the next chambers, perhaps. I’ll go and see.”

“Come, Rebecca,” said the admiral scornfully; “we have no business here.”

He held out his arm, but his sister thrust it away.

“Yes; we have business here,” she said. “If, as Mr Guest suspects, some accident has befallen Malcolm Stratton, would you care to meet Myra without having been there?”

She whispered this to her brother while Guest had gone to Brettison’s door, at which he knocked sharply.

The admiral turned fiercely upon his sister, but she did not shrink.

“You know it’s right,” she said. “Be reasonable, Mark. Malcolm Stratton could not have insulted us all like this.”

“I can’t make him hear,” said Guest, after a second sharp summons at Brettison’s door. “I must fetch up a carpenter and make him force open this door.”

“You have no right to proceed to such violent measures, Mr Guest.”

“Then I shall assume the right, sir. I believe that my friend lies behind that door wounded or murdered for the sake of the money he had ready for his wedding trip, and do you think I am going to stand on punctilio at a time like this?”

Miss Jerrold looked very white and faint as she said quietly:

“He is quite right, Mark.”

“Get workmen, then, in Heaven’s name, sir, or the police.”

Guest took a step toward the stairs, but turned again.

“I don’t like the exposé, sir,” he said sharply. “There might be reasons why I should repent going.”

“But you must have that door opened at once,” cried Sir Mark, now once more growing excited, as if Guest’s manner were contagious.

Guest drew his hand over the door in search of a hold to try and drag it toward him, ending by thrusting it in by the letter slit and giving it a vigorous shake.

He withdrew it, shaking his head, and paused, for steps were heard. But they passed the doorway at the bottom of the building and died away, while, as he listened, all seemed to be silent upstairs and down.

“We must have a carpenter,” he said aloud; and, once more placing his ear to the letter slit, he listened, and then came away to where Sir Mark stood.

“I’m certain I heard breathing within there,” he whispered. “Someone is listening, and I’m sure there is something wrong; but I don’t like to leave you here alone, Sir Mark.”

“Why?”

“In case some scoundrel should make a sudden rush out and escape.”

“Fetch a policeman,” said Sir Mark sturdily. “Let him try it while you are gone.”

At that moment, Guest uttered an eager cry, and thrust his hand into his pocket.

“I’d forgotten that,” he said, in answer to Miss Jerrold’s inquiring look; “and I don’t know now that it will fit.”

He had taken out his latchkey on the chance of that which fitted the lock of one set of chambers fitting that of another, and, thrusting it into the keyhole, he was in the act of turning it when, as if someone had been listening to every word and act, a bolt was suddenly shot back, and the door thrown open against Guest’s chest. He started back in astonishment, for there, in the dark opening, stood Malcolm Stratton, his face of a sickly sallow, a strange look in his eyes, and a general aspect of his having suddenly turned ten years older, startling all present.

“What do you want?” he said harshly.

The question was so sudden that Guest was stunned into muteness, but the admiral stepped forward fiercely.

“You—you despicable scoundrel!” he roared; and as Stratton stepped back the old man followed him quickly into the room, and caught him by the throat.

“Mark! Mark!” cried Miss Jerrold, following to seize her brother’s arm, while Guest, relieved beyond measure at finding his friend in the flesh, instead of his murderer, hurriedly entered and closed the outer door.

“Stand aside, woman!” cried the admiral, fiercely wresting himself free in ungovernable rage on seeing the man who had caused the morning’s trouble standing there unharmed. The fact of Stratton being uninjured and making so insulting a demand half maddened him, and, seizing his collar, he was bearing him back, when Guest interposed, and separated them.

“This will do no good, Sir Mark,” he cried. “For everybody’s sake, sir, be calm.”

“Calm!” roared the old sailor furiously.

“Yes, Mark, calm,” whispered his sister, clinging to him firmly. “Is it the act of an officer and a gentleman to behave like this?”

“You don’t know—you cannot feel as I do,” he raged.

“For Myra’s sake,” whispered Miss Jerrold quickly; and the old man made an effort and calmed down.

“Let him explain then. Let him say what it means. A public insult. To be degraded like this. And after what is past.”

Meanwhile Stratton was looking wildly about him. The sweat stood in great drops upon his haggard face, and he trembled violently, though it was apparent to his friend that he was fighting hard to be composed.

Guest turned to Sir Mark.

“Tha............