At daybreak, King O’Leary loosened the ropes which held Doctor Fortier and signed to him to follow.

“Not to the police-station, I presume,” said the other, smiling.

“If I had my way you would,” said O’Leary, with bad grace, for the doctor’s cool assurance had not ceased to irritate him.

“Doubtless; but you see there are certain cases which have to be settled in the family. You’ll know more of this later.”

“Next time, look out,” said O’Leary grimly.

“There’ll be no next time,” said Doctor Fortier, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You may not believe me, but it is so. You can have that satisfaction. You can tell that to my precious brother-in-law.”

With which he went off surlily enough under all his assumption of indifference. The knowledge of Fortier’s relationship to Dangerfield was but small surprise to King O’Leary. In his own mind he had long arrived at a shrewd suspicion of the crisis through which his neighbor was passing. He called up Sassafras and put him on watch for any new attempt, improbable though it might be. Upstairs he held a consultation with Inga, who slipped into the hall for a brief moment, at the end of which it was decided to secure the aid of Flick’s two friends in the pugilistic profession.

“The fellow claimed to be his brother-in-law,” said O’Leary. “Do you think that’s true?”

She nodded.

“I’m quite sure.”

“Then that was his wife who was here, and she’s at the bottom of it all,” he said thoughtfully. “But why should they try to carry him off like this? What the deuce was their object? Have you any idea?”

He had been speaking his thoughts aloud. Now, as he looked at her, each saw in the other’s eyes that the same supposition dominated them.

“You think so, too,” he said, surprised.

“But there is no truth in it,” she said, frowning, angry to have had her thoughts divined. “Whatever you do, O’Leary, don’t say to any one what—what you believe. That mustn’t be talked about.”

“I sometimes wonder—” he said slowly, looking toward the corner studio.

“You are wrong,” she said impatiently, “absolutely wrong.”

He shrugged his shoulders unconvinced, influenced a little, too, by his jealousy. “I’m not so sure—anyhow, Inga, what’s to come of it? We can’t go on forever like this. If he won’t turn it over to the police, sooner or later they’ll get him—that’s certain.”

“It’s not going to last,” she said decidedly. “He keeps talking about the twentieth all the time. I have an idea that something is bound to happen then. I think this was a last desperate attempt on her part.”

“The twentieth, that’s day after to-morrow,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess we can hold the fort for two nights.”

As he was going she stopped him.

“Mind,” she said anxiously; “be careful what you say. Think all you wish, but don’t get the others talking. It’s not their affair and—it might do harm.”

“Aren’t you sometimes a bit afraid?” he said abruptly.

She laughed.

“Never; what an idea!”

“I believe you can manage him,” he said, watching her as she stood lightly, her head thrown a little back, and her eyes softened by a touch of amusement. “Say, take an hour’s nap. Let me relieve you.”

“No, no,” she said; “I am the only one who can quiet him.” And, conscious of the understanding that now lay between them, she added solemnly: “O’Leary, he is in a bad way. That’s a fact.”

It was not until well into the afternoon, after Flick had returned with the pugilists, that the memory of Drinkwater suddenly returned to King O’Leary. He gave forth an exclamation with such suddenness that Tootles bounded across the rug, saying angrily:

“For the love of Mike, man, don’t do that—don’t do it! My nerves won’t stand it!”

“What the deuce are you going to do?” said Flick, observing him to rise, make for the door, and as abruptly return. The pugilists, who were being utilized as models for heroic bodies in the monumental decoration of Tootles, shifted and watched him hopefully as though scenting a call to arms.

O’Leary sat down and began to stare at the one-eyed bear on the floor with such impressive mental concentration that they watched him in silence.

“By George, I believe the whole thing was planned!” he said, striking his leg.

“Planned? Of course it was planned,” said Flick.

“No, no; I mean our being away—out of sight and hearing. The more I think about it—why, if Millie hadn’t got the creeps and run away, Inga never would have known where we were.”

“That’s right.”

“It was Millie who told Inga,” said Flick, with conviction.

“King, I do believe you’re right,” said Tootles. “It was planned; the whole floor was cleared out on purpose.”

“But who did it?” said Flick. “Not Madame Probasco?”

“How about your friend, the lawyer!”

“Drinkwater!” said Tootles, rising in fury. “By Jove, of course—no doubt about it!”

“No; I don’t think there is much doubt,” said O’Leary. “Hold on there; you can’t go out and demolish him single-handed.”

“He had the door locked,” said Flick reflecting, “and he tried to throw the lights off—Why, the low-down little pup!”

“Yes; I guess that’s all true,” said O’Leary slowly. “That’s been his game for a long while. Well, suppose we find out a little more.” He started toward the door again and stopped. “No, no; that wouldn’t work. We must find some way to get him in here and try a little third-degree treatment. We might get him in to pose for Tootles—only he’d see through that. Best plan is to have Schneibel ask him into his place, and that won’t be easy either. The fellow’s no fool....”

But as they were studying over ways and means, Myrtle Popper came in with fresh information by way of Sassafras. The lawyer had decamped during the night, for a messenger-boy had been sent up with a note calling for a valise which was in his room. This last bit of evidence was conclusive to their minds, already strongly prejudiced. Likewise, it made them fear a new attack, and, with this in mind, they prepared anxiously for the coming of the night.

When Inga had told O’Leary of her anxiety, she had not overstated the situation. Dangerfield had found a few hours’ rest in the morning, a rest broken by scurrying, baneful dreams. When he awoke, though he seemed physically refreshed, the mind remained in a lethargy. Instead of the rapid change of moods with sudden outbursts of irritation to which she had grown accustomed, she found him all at once pensive, subdued, and given to long, staring silences.

“To-day is the eighteenth?” he said to her, without turning his head.

“Yes, the eighteenth,” she answered cheerily.

“That’s what I thought.”

An hour later, he repeated the question without noticing the repetition. Later in the afternoon, he took up his interminable solitaire; but the movements of the cards were made mechanically, and he made many mistakes without noticing them.

“They’re running very badly,” he said querulously.

“Try again,” she said, ensconcing herself on the arm of the great chair. “Here, I’ll cut for luck.”

He allowed her to take the pack and to spread it in deft lines. When the layout was completed, she clapped her hands.

“There you see—the six on the seven, and you have a space the first thing! Let’s see the next card.”

They began to play, and, leaning against him, she drew her arm over his shoulder, bending forward alertly to watch the shifting of the cards. But the luck which had been favorable suddenly changed, and after a moment, impatiently, he put out his hand and brushed the cards away, saying:

“No use.” He stared blankly at the table and then brought his knuckles up against his teeth with a deep breath. “Wish I could get out—out of this—anywhere!”

“You will soon—in two days.”

“Two days—yes, of course,” he said, nodding. “I must hold on until then.”

The hand which lay on the table opened and closed and opened again in helpless indecision. In all his brooding, the effort seemed directed against some internal danger, some struggle of the soul. She felt this, as she felt the trembling of the balance of fate, and all her reserve vanished before the needs of the man who, on his part, sought nothing from her.

“Mr. Dan,” she said, passing her cool hand over the furrowed brow and bending over him, “Mr. Dan, can’t I help? Won’t you let me?”

“You can’t—no one can,” he said, shaking his head.

“I must tell you one thing: There’s nothing to fear. We’ll watch for you to-night—O’Leary’s arranged that,” she said rapidly, misunderstanding him. “He’s got two men to spend the night—the men who were here that night.”

“You did that,” he said, and he patted her hand gently, while a smile came to his face for the first time.

“Would you like them in to-night? Wouldn’t it be easier to have a party?” she said, looking at him anxiously, longing to stir him out of himself. “Wouldn’t that occupy you?”

“No, no,” he said, shrinking at the thought; “to-morrow, not to-night. You don’t understand—it’s quiet I want now, to stop this thing beating in here.” His hand went to his forehead and his fingers strained there as though in the effort to seize some throbbing torment underneath and crush it. Instinctively her arm drew tight about his body, pressing him close to her, and she said impressively, tears rising to her eyes:

“Oh, Mr. Dan, why can’t I help you? I would give anything—anything to be of some good.”

“What’s that?” he said, suddenly sitting up, his head on one side, listening. “On the roof—just now—didn’t you hear?”

She went swiftly to the window and looked out.

“Nothing at all,” she said, smiling at him as at a startled child. “What a crazy idea!”

The moment she had said the careless words, she regretted it.

“Crazy? You think I’m crazy?” he said, jerking around.

“Why, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, distressed, “don’t look at me that way.”

“You think I’m crazy—you do?” He repeated his question, seizing her wrists, watching her closely with his sharp, short glances.

“No; you’re not crazy,” she said vehemently.

He continued to watch her, plainly unconvinced.

“I’m not crazy—no,” he said, at length, wearily, “but—I could be driven to it. Yes, yes; lots of times that’s happened. That’s what they counted on, and if they had got me—if I had waked up in a cell—a padded cell—” He shrank back, recoiling at the picture which rose before him, his fingers twisting in his hair. “God, what might not have happened! Now you know.”

“Yes; I’ve known that.”

“You have?” he said, surprised.

“I mean, I’ve known what you were afraid of,” she said solemnly.

“I am afraid, dreadfully afraid,” he said, in a whisper, “but that—that’s one thing will never happen,” he added in a tone of deep conviction; “no, never.”

“No; for I won’t let you,” she said firmly. “You shan’t lose your grasp. When things are straightened out, you’re going to begin a new life—a life of work.”

He looked at her nervously, doubting, but longing to be convinced.

“I mean it,” she said, and, as her eyes met his, the slow smile spread on her face, as she looked down upon him with deep compassion. He half yielded and then brusquely withdrew.

“Too late! Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago?” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. He rose, turned, and faced her, with a return of the old authority. “Inga, don’t—what I’ve made up my mind to do—you can’t change. It’s got to be done—it shall be done!”

And in the tone with which he said this there was something so desperately resolved and hopeless that, for the first time, she felt a sinking sense of defeat.

Before she could rally, and while still Dangerfield’s glassy stare was fixed on her, there came a cautious knock at the door—a scraping, sliding tattoo.

“Who’s that?” he said hastily.

The knock was repeated.

“Better let me go,” she said, with a warning gesture. She went to the window first, for a survey of the roofs, and then to the bolted door. Suddenly she drew back with an exclamation. Outside, the tall, thin form of Drinkwater was standing.