Eight o’clock was striking from St. Martin’s Church when the door of Peter Ruff’s office was softly opened and closed again. A man in a slouch hat and overcoat entered, and after feeling along the wall for a moment, turned up the electric light. Violet Brown rose from her place with a little sob. She stretched out her hand to him.
“Peter!” she cried. “Peter!”
“My name,” the newcomer said calmly, “is Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald.”
“Oh, listen to me!” she begged. “There is still time, if you hurry. Think how many clever men before you have been deceived by the woman in whom they trusted. Please, please go! Hurry upstairs and put those things away.”
“Madam,” the newcomer said, “I am much obliged to you for your interest, but I think that you are making a mistake. I have come here to meet—”
He stopped short. There was a soft knocking at the door. A stifled scream broke from Violet Brown’s lips.
“It is too late!” she cried. “Peter! Peter!”
She sank into her chair and covered her face with her hands. The door was opened and Maud came in. When she saw who it was who sat in Peter Ruff’s place, she gave a little cry. Perhaps after all, she had not believed that this thing would happen.
“Spencer!” she cried, “Spencer! Have you really come back?”
He held out his hands.