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 Everything seemed like a dream to Brewster as he rushed off through the night to the office of Grant & Ripley. He was dazed, bewildered, hardly more than half-conscious. A bitter smile crept about his lips as he drew away from the street-car track almost as his hand touched the rail of a car he had signaled. He remembered that he did not have money enough to pay his fare. It was six or seven blocks to the office of the lawyers, and he was actually running before he stopped at the entrance of the big building.

Never had an elevator traveled more slowly than the one which shot him to the seventh floor. A light shone through the transom above the attorneys' door and he entered without so much as a rap on the panel. Grant, who was pacing the floor, came to a standstill and faced his visitor.

"Close the door, please," came in steady tones from Ripley. Mr. Grant dropped into a chair and Brewster mechanically slammed the door.