Laverick had no time to look around, but it seemed to him, notwithstanding the cheap white furniture and very ordinary appointments, that the same note of dainty femininity pervaded this little apartment as the one below.
"It is my room," she said shyly.

"There is no other properly furnished, and I thought that he might sleep upon the bed." "Perhaps he is asleep now," Laverick whispered.
Even as he spoke, the dark figure stretched upon the sheets sprang into a sitting posture.

Laverick was conscious of a distinct shock.
It was Morrison, still wearing the clothes in which he had left the office, his collar crushed out of all shape, his tie vanished.

His black hair, usually so shiny and perfectly arranged, was all disordered.

Out of his staring eyes flashed an expression which one sees seldom in life,--an expression of real and mortal terror.
"Who is it ?" he cried out, and even his voice was unrecognizable.
"Who is that?
What do you want ?" "It is I--Laverick," Laverick answered.