At the moment when the rescuing party broke tumultuously through the door, the kidnapers had so far succeeded in their attempt that the helpless body of Dangerfield had been borne to the window for the route over the roofs. Two of the assailants were in the room; the rest had passed outside. The sudden interruption changed everything. The two within the room turned hastily to make front to the unexpected attack. The body of Dangerfield, thus released, fell heavily near the window-sill, while the assailants on the roof, alarmed at the hue and cry, hesitated but a second before breaking for safety. Inside, the struggle was of short duration. One man, the shorter of the two, succeeded in breaking through the crowd and escaping down the halls; the other, of more aggressive stuff, fought furiously against the odds until a grip of King O’Leary’s flung him to the ground, where he lay stunned by a blow on the head.

“Tie him up!” shouted O’Leary to Flick. “Never mind his head. Watch out he isn’t faking! Here—take this!” He flung them an end of the rope trailing on the floor, and hurried over anxiously to where, by the sofa, Dangerfield was lying, surrounded by a gaping crowd.

“Here, air—give the man air!” he cried, pushing them back. “What is it, Inga?”

“Chloroform,” she said, looking up.

“Nothing else—no black-jacking?”

“No; I’m sure.”

“How the devil did they get him?” he said, kneeling and running his fingers over Dangerfield’s head to assure himself that there were no contusions.

Inga shook her head.

“Some came through the door, and some over the roofs, I think,” she said. “When I saw them struggling, I didn’t wait.”

The room was in a fearful state. One tapestry had been half torn from the walls; a picture-frame lay smashed across the floor; a chair had been shattered, while the great Florentine table lay on its side with candlesticks, books, and platters showered over the rugs.

O’Leary cleared the room of all but Flick, Tootles, and Belle Shaler, who stayed to help Inga.

“Suppose we ought to notify the police,” he said, after Tootles had returned with the information that the party had driven away in an ambulance which had been waiting below.

“Perhaps—though I am not sure,” she said doubtfully, gazing at Dangerfield, who had not come out of his stupor.

“It’s a plain case—”

“I think I’d wait a while, if I were you,” said a voice that startled them.

They peered at the sound, and found their captive looking at them maliciously, a hard smile over the strong lines of his mouth under the close-cropped mustache.

O’Leary went up to him and examined carefully the sturdy figure, neatly dressed, though, in the struggle, a rent had been torn in the coat where a pocket had been wrenched.

“I think I’d find out what the person you call ‘Dangerfield’ has to say about that,” he said coolly.

Inga joined O’Leary, and together they stood, undecided, gazing down at the man who lay on the floor propped up against a great armchair.

“Nice business for a man like you to be in!” said O’Leary scornfully. “Well, you’ll get time enough to think it over—up the river.”

“Perhaps,” he said, with a shrug. “Have you any objection to my sitting in a chair while you make up your mind?”

“What’ll we do?” said O’Leary, turning to Inga in perplexity.

“Wait,” she said, after a moment.

“You know best,” said O’Leary, and, leaning down, he caught the man by the shoulders and lifted him to a chair. A splotch of blood showed on his head just back of the ear, where he had crashed against a corner of the chest.

“You might as well tie up my head,” he said surlily, “for the sake of the carpet, if nothing else.”

Inga took a basin, sponged the wound, which was slight, and placed a bandage. The man watched her intently, and at the end said gruffly:

“Thanks. You did that well enough. Suppose I have to thank you, young lady, for breaking up this little party?”

She paid no attention to his remarks, and, her work being finished, went back to Dangerfield, saying to O’Leary:

“Better make sure he’s tied fast.”

The man laughed outright, and, suddenly extending his hands, which he had somehow managed to slip from their fastenings, said:

“Do it better this time.”

His feet being bound would have sufficed to hold him; nevertheless O’Leary took several hitches so vigorously that the prisoner protested.

At this moment Dangerfield, on the sofa, groaned.

“He’s coming out of it!” said Inga.

“Well, if I’ve got to wait,” said the man suddenly, in a sharp, professional manner, “might as well tell you what to do. He’s had a good dose of it, that’s certain. Lay him flat on his back and work the stuff out of his lungs. Raise up the arms and press down on the diaphragm regularly and slowly. Open up the skylight and get some cold air in here. He’ll come around in no time.”

“Oh, a doctor!” said O’Leary.

“Perhaps.”

Under these directions, Dangerfield began to gasp and mutter, and finally, as they waited, opened his eyes and glared out of them with his characteristic stare of a frightened animal. Presently he rose to a sitting position, clutching the arm of Inga, who was supporting him, his glance set directly on the man with the cropped mustache, who faced him with a confident, indifferent smile.

“Who’s that?” he cried, almost in terror, and the grip on her arm sunk painfully into her flesh.

“It’s I, Dan—Jim Fortier,” said the prisoner, with a sudden rough authority in his voice, as though he were indeed the master of the scene.

Whether the fumes of the chloroform had not yet left his faculties free, or whether he did not perceive the true position of Fortier, to their amazement Dangerfield seemed suddenly shaken with an unreasoning fear. He cried out: “Doctor Jim! Doctor Jim!” and covered his face with his hands.

Inga took him hurriedly in her arms, crying:

“Mr. Dangerfield, nothing’s happened—you’re here. It’s Inga—O’Leary’s here—we’re all here!”

“Inga,” he said slowly, and, already half returned to the land of confused dreams, he dropped his hands and turned his face toward her voice, a clouded, perplexed look in his eyes. She dropped on one knee and met his glance, smiling.

“It’s all right; nothing’s happened. You’re in your studio, safe,” she said, as though she were talking to a child.

“Safe enough for the time being,” said Doctor Fortier, breaking in in quick, staccato tones.

Dangerfield shot around, gazed in the direction of his enemy, and putting out his hands as though to ward him off, collapsed.

Every one was impressed by the effect Doctor Fortier’s voice had produced.

“Take him away, quick—to your room; keep him there!” said Inga, hastily.

“Come along, you!” said O’Leary, with a sudden tightening hold on the other man’s throat, for he had begun to divine his maneuver. “And no tricks, or I might get to squeezing. Loosen up his feet—that’s it! Come on!”

Tootles was stationed in the hall to watch the passage over the roofs, to guard against the possibility of a return attack, and only Belle Shaler remained, at Inga’s direction seating herself in a further corner to give an instant alarm.

The fumes of the chloroform seemed to have closed over Dangerfield’s consciousness once more. He moved and stretched out his fingers, seeking the glass of water she held to them to ease the heat of his throat. The cool draft seemed momentarily to bring pleasant intervals in his dream, for he began to laugh and to hum to himself, calling out names unfamiliar to her—brother artists, perhaps, of youthful days—the whole intermixed with snatches of French.

“Give me the brush—Violet socks with white polka dots. A toi, mon coco! En charrette! Quinny, get to work. A nous, les anciens! What a float, eh? Where do we rendezvous? CafÉ ProcopÉ? Every one there—CafÉ ProcopÉ, eight sharp! Du Bois and De Monvel, go first. Parfaitement! Gogo, tu es Épatant.” He began to rock with laughter. “Look at Gogo! Isn’t he a wonder! GarÇon, des bocks! All together, now—

In his excitement he rose to a sitting position and began to beat time, listening to the volume of an indistinguishable orchestra in crowded halls. Then the air seemed to be shaken with frantic applause, for he began to bow to gay, whirling throngs, and all at once called out triumphantly, “L’atelier Julian—premier prix!” After which, reason seemed to flow back into his eyes, and he turned to her and said quite rationally:

“Water—more water.”

“Lie down—rest quietly, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, serving him. “It will pass in a moment.”

His eyes dwelt on her fixedly, seeming to grow larger and deeper as the consciousness faded. He smiled contentedly.

“Always you,” he said quietly. In a moment he added: “I know everything that is passing; I hear everything.” But already he was back in the delirium, in a jumble of painful, rapid reflections of the past, crying:

“Every one in the house dines with me to-night! Valentin, give me the bank. I take the bank for a thousand louis. Who plays? Baccarat!” And again. “Louise, Louise Fortier! Thank you—yes, it’s my hat. Fortier? I know that name—from the south. That’s my route—if you will allow me.... Once more; a bank of a thousand louis! Gentlemen, your turn’s come. No, no; win or lose to the end! Well, a clean sweep. I take one card—as usual, baccarat! What color—Italy—see Italy and die.... Bon jour, les copins! I am back again—cleaned out!” He stopped suddenly and lifted his hand to his head, saying with a ceremonious bow to the glittering room of frantic gamblers which rose in his vision: “Gentlemen, I thank you. You have restored me to my art! Cocher, Rue Bonaparte!” Immediately a frown succeeded, and he said rapidly, in a hard voice: “No, no, and no! I permit you to love another—that is your right. I do not admit of vulgar deception. You will do as I say. You will do it, or I—”

“Mr. Dangerfield,” cried Inga, laying her hand over his, which was whipping back and forth in uncontrolled excitement, “hush!”

There was a slight noise in the back of the room and the door clicked. Belle Shaler, fearing to overhear too much, had slipped away.

“Click!” said Dangerfield, snatching his hand away from the clutch of her fingers and shuddering. “Got me! No, no; it’s not true! I know what you’re trying to make me believe! But it’s not true—not true!” he shouted vehemently. Then, as the echoes seemed to return to him on the silences of the night, he repeated in a whisper, “not true!”

“Water,” Inga said.

He frowned, took the glass eagerly, and stared at her.

“Who’s that?”

“Inga.”

“You’re sure?” His hand came creeping toward her and up over her hair, groping for her features. “The eyes—the eyes—strange eyes! Inga—Inga Sonderson—sounds like the sea rolling in. Only, you mustn’t—mustn’t get to caring what becomes of me—it’s no use.”

“But I do care,” she said, in her deep voice.

The mist that was wavering in his brain seemed to vanish at the sound of her words.

“What’s happened?” he said slowly, frowning as though to bring back all his faculties. “Where am I?”

“You’re here, in your studio,” she said quickly, “quite safe.”

“What’s the matter with me, then?” he said helplessly.

“They tried to chloroform you—but that’s passing away now.”

“Tell me all.”

“Do you think I had better?”

“Yes, yes; don’t let me go back to sleep,” he said desperately. “I remember something over my head, stifling me—the room full of people—darkness——”

“That’s true; they were trying to get you out of the window and over the roof when we broke in.”

“They? Who? Doctor—” He hesitated, watching her sharply.

“Yes; Doctor Fortier.”

“He’s here!” he said, sitting up and staring about the room.

“Not now; there’s no one here.”

“Jim Fortier!” he repeated angrily. “Then it was what I thought. Who saved me—you?”

“No, no, I only got the others—O’Leary and the rest.”

“They almost had me,” he said slowly. A great weakness seemed to overcome him, for an unusual gentleness came into his voice, the quiet tone of weak convalescence. “You can tell me the rest—I can stand it. What happened?”

“Don’t you think you had better be quiet?” she said anxiously. “It has been a shock.”

“Yes,” he said with a shudder, and his hand clutched her shoulder as though clinging desperately to it, while in the subdued torment on his face there was a sudden flickering passage of absolute terror that caused her to cry:

“Mr. Dangerfield, Mr. Dangerfield, don’t look that way! I can’t bear it.”

Her face was so close to his, flushed with compassion and tenderness, that this imminence of youth and affection brought back into his eyes a touch of quiet and gratitude.

“Why do you care so much?” he said greedily.

“I do; I do,” she said, gazing at him earnestly. “When you suffer, it just tears my heart.”

He closed his eyes and smiled, and she was afraid that the tyranny of the chloroform was asserting itself again; but suddenly he opened his eyes and said, raising one finger as though in warning:

“You don’t know what I am afraid of?”

Again there came into the intensity of his gaze the characteristic touch of the startled animal seeking to comprehend. It was a mood which she had learned to fear and avoid. She took his hands in hers, pressing them firmly, as though by the act transferring to him some of her abundant strength and courage.

“Some time you can tell me—not now. I want you to rest.”

“Fortier was here, in this room, wasn’t he?” he said at length.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“I had O’Leary take him into the studio until you could decide——”

“Decide what?”

“Whether to let him go or to send for the police,” she said, after some hesitation.

“They’ve got him—Doctor Fortier—a prisoner?” he said slowly.

“O’Leary was going to have the police in and turn him over to them, but I thought it was better to let you decide.”

He turned and looked at her gratefully.

“It’s queer; you always seem to know instinctively the right thing to do. No; not the police—never that. Whatever happens to me—never that.”

“I am glad I was right,” she said, smiling. “Will you follow my advice?”

“What would you advise?”

“Don’t see him at all—let him go.”

To her surprise, he acquiesced immediately. In fact, the night’s experience seemed to have shaken him profoundly. He seemed mentally as well as physically exhausted, as though prostrated by the shock. He looked up at her as a patient at the attending nurse and said:

“Do what you think best.”

The reply was scarcely more than a whisper, and immediately his glance wandered, as though the decision had passed from his mind. She watched him a moment as he stared past her, indecision, trouble, and perplexity written on his clouded look; and then, making up her mind, stepped to the door and beckoned Belle Shaler.

“Tell O’Leary to keep him until daylight, and then let him go,” she said in a whisper.

The day was struggling through the curtains of the night as she came back. Dangerfield was waiting, his hand running nervously over the shawl she had thrown over him. When she came to his side he seized her hand instantly with a sigh of content and turned and looked at her with distraught eyes.

“Keep me quiet,” he said, and his hand closed over hers in a tighter dependence. “Try to keep me quiet.”

She looked down at him with her slow-breaking smile and, though the strain of the night had left her worn with fatigue, never had she felt such a complete sensation of happiness.