As Richard pushed his chair back and lighted a cigarette, a man-servant entered quietly and put a large envelope and a smaller one on the table before him. Richard took the larger envelope and read the superscription.

He hastily tore it open with his thumb. The letter began without any preliminaries:

In writing this I place my life at your disposal. I neither expect mercy nor ask it.

I have been so wretched for days that life is a burden I little care to bear.

Do what you please with this, but if you possess an unheard-of generosity I would ask you, after clearing yourself, to spare me as much as possible.

“My wild, improbable suspicions were correct!” Dick exclaimed, in surprise. The black-and-tan, hearing his voice, came and jumped inquiringly against his knee, but receiving no attention returned to finish the English Kilrain on the rug.

I first met Lucille Williams when she came to my office in answer to my advertisement for a typewriter and stenographer. Of the many who applied I selected her. Not because she was the most proficient worker, but for a man’s reason.

She had a pretty face.

Wonderfully pretty, I have had men tell me. She had large, clear blue eyes and an abundance of wavy black hair, and a faultless pink and white complexion that often accompanies the combination. Her hands were small and slender. She was particular in the care of them, and her remarkably small feet were always well shod.