And then he dropped.
In the room the struggle kept on—for an hour and then two. At last the screaming ceased, and the only sound was the gnawing of the rats, the crunching of their teeth and their satisfied, little squeaks of pleasure.
The next morning Winifred Willowby called on the Chief of the Secret Service of New York. With him were several men from Washington.
"I want to tell you something," he said. "A large group of men borrowed my office to have a meeting last night. They wanted privacy and secrecy and they had heard of my place in the Empire Trust Building. So I loaned them the entire floor for the night. But my janitors tell me that something terrible happened. An army of rats invaded the place, as they have been doing with other places in the city, and literally ate every man there; that is, all except one, a fellow by the name of Consuelo, and he preferred to jump out of a window and die clean on the pavement."
"Consuelo?" asked the Chief. "Not the Old Man? Not that Consuelo?"
"I think that is the one. Here is a list of the men who were there. I thought you might like to look it over before you gave it to the papers."
The Chief took the list and read it, puzzled.
"Do you mean these men were there last night?"
"I understand so."
"And now they are dead?"