AT ten o’clock that night Lorenzo Brayton sat before the desk in his private office awaiting the arrival of John Gordon Wattler.
Brayton had closed the door that led to the front office, allowing the lights in front to burn. He wanted Wattler to think that he had found Lorenzo Brayton engrossed in work.
Brayton lighted a cigar now and leaned back in his desk chair, listening for the opening of the corridor door. Ten minutes passed, and nobody came.
“Hope he doesn’t keep me waiting here until midnight,” Brayton growled.
He glanced toward the closed door—and saw the knob begin to turn. There was something almost mysterious about that silent turning of the knob, as though it were being done by supernatural fingers. Brayton watched it, fascinated, while fear gripped him. He seemed to be un
