This dramatic interruption made a tremendous commotion. The party broke up instantly. O’Leary, who had been watching Drinkwater from the moment Dangerfield had put on the gloves, purposely left the door of their room open into the hall.

“What’s going on there is no business of ours,” he said grimly. “I propose to keep it so.”

Sure enough, presently along came Drinkwater, head down, as though unaware of the open door.

“Hey, there!”

At O’Leary’s call, the elongated figure pulled up abruptly, and Drinkwater’s gipsy face loomed high in the door-frame.

“Yes?” he said, blowing nervously through his nose. “What is it?”

“I say, Drinkwater, better keep away from that end of the hall,” said O’Leary casually. “You see, you might overhear something you oughtn’t to.”

Drinkwater looked around with an excellent simulation of surprise.

“Really?” he said affably. “I wasn’t noticing. Good-night.” With which, smiling, he moved away, and quite casually he reached out and closed the door.

O’Leary, whistling to himself, rose and opened it again, saying sarcastically:

“Now, wasn’t that cute of him!”

Presently, just as he had expected, Drinkwater came by the door again.

“Hey, there!”

The lawyer stopped, but this time there was no smile on his face.

“Well, what is it?” he said curtly.

“Told you to keep away from this end—savvy?” said O’Leary, looking at him.

“I do not recognize, O’Leary,” said the lawyer, puffing after every third word, and speaking as though he were addressing the court, “any right of yours to tell me what I should do.”

“You don’t? Well, I do. What’s going on in there is nothing in your life, old horse, so I’ve just made up my mind to sit here and see that no little five-dollar lawyer goes soft-footing it down there to sneak around. You see, Drinkwater, I’m on to your game.”

“What do you mean?” said the other, quietly enough, though his fingers were twitching at the hem of his coat.

“Think it over,” said O’Leary. “I’m not at all certain that this isn’t some of your work to-night. But you heard what I said. Now, git!”

Drinkwater stood looking at him stubbornly, hatred fairly oozing out of his brilliant black eyes that were now drawn and wicked as a cornered reptile’s. Then he blew through his nostrils again and went up the hall.

They waited with a sense of impending tragedy—Tootles at the table drawing nervous caricatures on a pad, Flick and Schneibel by the window, talking in low tones, O’Leary moving restlessly up and down the room. The woman had been there an hour by the watch which he jerked out every five minutes, when, all at once, they heard steps coming down the hall. O’Leary turned with a sudden start and shot over to the door, whether he believed it was Drinkwater again or whether he had some other possibility in mind. This time it was Mr. Cornelius, who, unable to contain his anxiety, had come down for news.

“Now, isn’t this a nice damn thing?” he said, in his staccato, excited way, and they noticed that his gray mustache, ordinarily so immaculate, was sadly twisted and awry. He stood there, fretting and undecided. “How long is it now since she was there?”

“Over an hour.”

Instinctively they were silent, listening. From the next room not a sound came to them.

“You hear anything?” said the baron.

“Once. They were getting up pretty high,” said O’Leary. “I gave them a rap or two on the wall.”

“I don’t like it—une sale affaire! Que diable vient-elle faire ici?” said the baron, twitching at the tuft under his chin.

“Do you think some one had better break it up?” said O’Leary, who showed a good deal of uneasiness, for him.

Tootles drew a big breath, shoved away his pad, and went to listen by the wall.

“A nice damn thing,” said Mr. Cornelius, angrily. “What a stupid damn thing—eh? Yes, perhaps some one had better go. One never knows—at such times. He is—so—so wild!”

“If any one goes, it’s up to you, Baron,” said O’Leary solemnly. “You’ve got more of the inside dope than we. It wouldn’t be quite so raw—” He pulled out his watch again, though he had consulted it only a few moments before, and said nervously: “Yes; darned if I don’t think you’d better see what’s going on.”

At this moment the door of the corner studio opened, and they heard Dangerfield say:

“Too late—I’ve said it—you’ve got just four days more.” Then something unintelligible in the woman’s voice, evidently a supplication, for he replied with a scornful laugh:

“With all your cleverness—you’re not clever enough. You should have known the man you were dealing with.”

The nerves of the listeners were at such a tension that they were quite unconscious of their exposed position in the hall. Dangerfield perceived them first, for he drew up, folded his arms and said:

“Don’t waste time—good-by.”

Whether or not she became aware of her listeners, she seemed to accept the inevitable, for, after a moment she said quietly:

“You will, at least, I suppose, see me to my car?”

He hesitated, and was about to comply, though it was evident that it went against the grain to do so, when the door of the little studio opened abruptly and Inga came out.

“Don’t go!” she said emphatically, moving directly to Dangerfield and touching his arm.

This unlooked-for action on the part of Inga left them all amazed. Curiously enough, the only one who seemed to take it as a matter of course was Dangerfield.

“Why do you say that?” he said sharply, yet seeming to give the matter attention.

“Don’t go—don’t!” she repeated insistently.

While every one was waiting for what was going to happen next, the woman said quietly, with supreme insolence, as though such persons as Inga were beneath her notice:

“You have not quite lost, I suppose, all sense of decency? Kindly take me out of this humiliating scene.”

There was something in her tone that did not quite ring true. It was too calm, too calculatedly unresentful, perhaps. At any rate, each was conscious of an uneasy sense of distrust. Dangerfield, who had been looking at Inga’s tense face, seemed to make up his mind all at once.

“O’Leary, are you there?” he said abruptly.

To the surprise of the others, O’Leary stepped forward at once and blurted out:

“Miss Sonderson’s advice is good. If you want, I’ll show the lady down.”

“Do,” said Dangerfield, who by now was in a high pitch of excitement, staring with shifty suspicion at the woman. At such moments, there was something brooding and combustible about him that gave one the sensation of walking over a mine.

The woman drew hastily away, as though really alarmed; then she turned on them as they stood together, Inga’s hand still resting on his arm, as though to quiet him.

“So that’s how it is?” she said, with a high-pitched laugh.

Then she turned and went around the corner. At the steps she seemed to see O’Leary for the first time.

“I don’t need your assistance,” she said curtly.

O’Leary, without reply, continued to follow. At the bottom of the flight she turned again. This time her voice was conciliating.

“Thank you, but I prefer to go on alone.”

“Yes, yes,” said O’Leary, as though he had grown suddenly deaf; “but it’s no trouble—none at all.”

At the next flight she wheeled around with abrupt determination.

“You evidently don’t understand me,” she said sharply. “Your presence is obnoxious. I wish to be left alone.”

“Very probably,” said O’Leary, without, however, having shown any signs of departing.

“Do you hear me?” she said angrily.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Useless to talk to me like that, my lady,” he said, exaggerating his role for purposes of his own. “I’m no gentleman, you see—you can’t put those tricks over on me. I’m just King O’Leary, and I’m going to see that you get out of here. Now that you understand things better, will you go quietly, or do you want me to pick you up and carry you?”

She drew back with a cry.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Well, which is it?”

She made up her mind quickly; evidently she could size up a situation and reconcile herself to it when faced with a crisis, for she turned and went down the other flights without a word.

On the second floor, his ear caught the sounds of hurried, slipping steps. He turned hastily, almost certain that he had seen the passage of some tall, shifting body, but he did not dare to investigate them, with the duty in hand.

“Are you satisfied now?” she said, when they had reached the ground floor. “Your intention is not to annoy me, is it?”

He stood stroking his chin, undecided. She profited by the moment’s indecision to flit swiftly out of the ghostly arcade toward the avenue. He did not move purposely until he had seen her round the corner, where she gave a hasty backward glance to assure herself that she was not followed. Then, making up his mind suddenly, he went down the arcade and out onto the sidewalk, for spying was not in his nature. She was at the door of a closed touring car; some one was giving her a hand from within, and on the curb two men were standing. She saw O’Leary start angrily toward them, and said something in peremptory command, and before he could come rushing up, the Irish anger in him awaking at the suspicion of foul play, they had jumped in after her and the car had rushed away through the muddy slush.

Remembering the shadow he had seen on the second floor, he hastened back. He made a thorough inspection of the halls without finding any one in these old corridors given over to business offices. Then he went directly to Drinkwater’s room and rapped sharply on the glowing glass. In a moment, the lawyer half opened the door, and seeing O’Leary there, stood scowling at him.

“What were you doing down on the second floor just now?” said O’Leary directly.

“Second floor? You’re crazy!” said Drinkwater, surlily.

“You were down there five minutes ago.”

“I was not, and I don’t know what business it is of yours anyway,” said the lawyer, catching his breath.

“Drinkwater, I believe you’re lying,” said O’Leary, with a twitching of his hands that made the other draw back abruptly. “If you’ve got any dirty scheme in your head—keep out of it, do you understand?”

“Is that all?” said the Portuguese, with a sneer.

O’Leary turned without answer and went down the hall.

“Dangerfield’s been asking after you,” said Flick. “Well, what?”

King O’Leary made a sign to signify that he would give his news later, and went to the next room.

Dangerfield jumped up at his entrance and came forward in a positive frenzy, crying:

“Well, what did you see—who was there?”

Behind him the straight, slender figure of Inga was standing. She shook her head hastily and placed her finger across her lips in warning.

“Why, no one at all,” said O’Leary heartily.

“No one?” said Dangerfield, and he came up close to him and looked into his face like a puzzled child. “You say, no one?”

“I told you that there was no reason to be excited,” said Inga, in a strangely calming voice.

“How do you know there was no one?” he said, dissatisfied. “Did you see who was outside? Did you go to the car,—all the way?”

“Yes, indeed; and the bigger fool I,” said O’Leary, who comprehended that the man was in no condition to hear what he had seen.

“But some one was there—in the car—waiting?” said Dangerfield, insisting. “A square-set man, about my height, cropped mustache—you saw him—you——”

Inga had advanced to his side; now she laid her hand on his arm and said with a smile:

“Why, Mr. Dangerfield, didn’t you hear what he said? There was no one there?”

“No one?” said Dangerfield, frowning and looking back at O’Leary with a perplexed stare.

“No one at all, and no one waiting,” said O’Leary glibly.

“Then why didn’t you want me to go down?” he said abruptly, turning on her.

“You would only have gone on arguing,” she said.

His back was turned a moment, as he ran his hand over his head and walked away. Inga’s eyes went quickly to King O’Leary. He nodded and held up three fingers.

Dangerfield had sat down at the spacious Florentine table and taken up two packs of cards. Inga glanced at him, and going over to the sideboard, lit two candles and placed them on either side of him. He looked up, smiled, and patted her hand, quite unconscious of O’Leary’s presence. Then he seemed to forget them both in the absorption of the solitaire, laying out the cards with minute pains, as though this assembled order rested his fluttering mind. She made a sign to King O’Leary and went to the door. Instantly Dangerfield looked up.

“Where are you going?” he said querulously.

She smiled.

“It’s all right; I’m coming back.”

Outside, O’Leary told her the results of the investigation, saying:

“Hadn’t he ought to know?”

She considered thoughtfully.

“Do you think they were there on purpose?”

“Don’t know—hard to tell,” he said, frowning. “It was her actions that made me suspicious. Well, oughtn’t we to put him wise?”

“I’ll tell him,” she said, nodding; “at least, I’ll mention it so he’ll be on his guard. Do you think—that is, if there is anything wrong—that there will be any danger to-night?”

“Can’t tell,” he said thoughtfully. “Do you want me to stay with him?”

She shook her head.

“If anything happens, I’ll come for you. It’s all right; I know how to handle him.”

“Say?”

“What?”

He looked down at her a moment, while, a little puzzled, she stood facing him, wondering.

“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?” he said abruptly.

She understood at once, but she waited some time before answering, as though the question were still undecided in her own mind.

“He needs me,” she said, at length, looking up into his eager eyes. Then she went back to the studio for the long night’s vigil.