Walking along Pennsylvania Avenue, Mr. Ridgeway called at The Willard to see a man who was then in Bolivia, and took a taxi to the Army and Navy Club. Then he went home, and to his own room, where he lighted all the lights and for a moment stood looking out the window before pulling down the blinds.
Then hastily he slipped off his shoes and felt his way down to the library, where he seated himself in his favorite chair beside the big table and, leaning back, gave himself up to his thoughts. He knew that it would be fifteen minutes or so before he could expect his visitors.
Suddenly a draft of air struck the back of his head. He knew that he had closed the door leading into the hall. He turned and half rose in his chair, but too late. Something descended with a sickening thud and without a groan he rolled over on the floor, a dead weight.
When later O’Brien and Lawrence entered by the window, as they had been told, they sat down on a couple of chairs that they were able to find in the darkness and proceeded to wait. But O’Brien was like a hound. He sensed disaster. Leaning close to Lawrence, he whispered, “There is something wrong here. I can smell it. I am going to light up.” With the words, he pressed on his electric searchlight, and slowly turned the brilliant ray about the room. What he saw caused him to leap to the window, lower the blind, and then switch on the big ceiling light.
Half under the table lay a tumbled figure. All the drawers were dragged out and ransacked and scattered papers which had been hastily unfolded and read were scattered everywhere.
“Is he dead?” gasped Lawrence.
O’Brien listened to Mr. Ridgeway’s heart. “Niver a bit! Sure he’s coming round pretty quick belike. What’s in that vase of posies? Wather? Gimme!”
He turned the big vase over on the unconscious man, and while nearly drowning him, it brought him to consciousness with a gasp. He looked up.
“Don’t rise, sir!” begged O’Brien. “Lay still now and collect your thoughts. Golly, that was a crack! I told you what would happen, didn’t I then? You are needing a nurse, and a steel jacket and a tin lid like the good old times of the late war if so be you are going to get tapped like this.”
In a few minutes Mr. Ridgeway was able to sit up, and with a rueful look gazed around at the disordered room. With a little help he got into his chair, and sighed. O’Brien, as though he had always been an inmate of the house, went through the dining-room, and beyond in a little breakfast room found a percolator all ready for breakfast. In a jiffy he had the coffee ready, and returned to Mr. Ridgeway with a steaming cup which he insisted on him drinking. The hot liquid seemed to revive Mr. Ridgeway, and presently he sat up, asking: