NO sooner had Michael Harrington seated himself at the card-table with his wife and Nora than he picked up a magazine and, as he always said, “kept the light from his eyes.” Some men—few there be—who boldly state they desire to sleep, but Michael was of the tactful majority and merely kept the light from his eyes and, incidentally, prevented any observers from noting that his eyes were closed.

He considered this a better way of waiting for Monty than to chatter as the women were doing of the events of the night.

“I wonder what’s become of Monty?” Alice asked presently.

“He’s kept us twenty minutes,” Nora returned crossly. “I saw him go out in the garden. He said it was to relieve his headache, but I really believe he wanted to capture the gang single-handed. Wouldn’t it be thrilling if he did?”

“A little improbable,” Alice laughed; “but still men do the oddest things sometimes. I never thought Michael the fighting kind till he knocked a man down once for kissing his hand to me.”

“It was fine of Michael,” Nora said. “The man deserved it.”

“I know, dear,” her hostess said, “but, as it happens, the man was kissing his hand to his infant son six months old in an upper window. It cost Michael fifty dollars, but I loved him all the more for it. Look at the dear old thing slumbering peacefully and imagining I think he’s keeping this very gentle light from his eyes.”

“It’s the two highballs he had in Mr. Denby’s room,” the sapient ingÉnue explained. She harked back to Monty. “I wish he were as brave about proposing. I’ve tried my grandmother’s recipes for shy men, and all my mother ever knew, I know. And yet he does get so flustered when he tries, that he scares himself away.”

Alice nodded. “He’s the kind you’ve got to lead to the altar. I had trouble with Michael. He imagined himself too hopelessly old, and very nearly married quite an elderly female. He’d have been dead now if he had. Here’s your prey coming in now.”

Monty entered the card-room from the garden, nervously stuffing into his pocket the precious package which Denby had thrown to him.

“I hope I haven’t delayed the game,” he apologized.

“We didn’t even miss you,” Nora said acidly.

“Were you supposed to be in on this game?”

“Don’t be cross, Nora,” Alice advised; “you can see his headache has been troubling him. Is it better, Monty?”

“What headache?” he asked. “I haven’t had a headache for months. Oh, yes,” he added, confused, “that neuralgic headache has gone, thanks. Shall we play?”

“Yes, let’s,” Nora said. “Michael dealt before he went to sleep.”

“Wake up, Michael,” his wife said, tapping him with her fan, “you’re not at the opera; you’re playing cards.”

“I haven’t slept for a moment,” he assured her, after a pause in which he got his bearings. “The light was too strong—”

“So you shaded your eyes,” his wife went on. “Well, when they are unshaded will you remember we’re playing?”

“Who opened it?” he demanded with a great effort.

“Bridge, my dear,” Alice reminded him, “not poker—bridge, auction bridge.” She paused a moment while the clock struck three. “And it’s three o’clock, and it’s quite time you began.”

“One no trump,” Nora said, after looking at her hand cheerfully.

“It isn’t your bid,” Alice corrected her, “although I don’t wonder you forgot. It’s Michael’s; he dealt.”

Michael tried to concentrate his gaze on his hand. There seemed to be an enormous number of cards, and he needed time to consider the phenomenon.

“What’d the dealer draw?” he asked.

“But we’re not playing poker,” Alice said.

“It was Monty who confused me,” he said in excuse, and looked reproachfully at his vis-À-vis. “What’s trumps?”

“It’s your bid,” Nora cried. “You dealt.”

“I go one spade.”

“One no trump,” Monty declared.

“Two royals,” Nora cried, not that she had them, but to take it away from Monty.

“Pass,” said Alice glumly. She could have gone two royals, but dared not risk three.

“Give me three cards,” Michael cried more cheerfully. The way was becoming clearer.

“Michael,” his wife said reprovingly, “if you’re really as tired as that, you’d better go to bed.”

“I never broke up a poker game in my life,” he cried. “It’s only the shank of the evening. What’s happened, partner?” he yawned to Nora.

“I went two royals,” she said.

Michael looked at his hand enthusiastically. “Three aces,” he murmured. “I’d like to open it for two dollars—as it is, I pass.”

“Two no trumps,” said Monty. When the rest had passed, Nora led and Monty played from the dummy. Michael, at last feeling he was rounding into form, played a low card, so that dummy took the trick with a nine.

“Anything wrong?” he asked anxiously as Nora shook her head.

“If you don’t want to win you’re playing like a bridge article in a Sunday paper,” she returned.

“This game makes me sick,” he said in disgust. “Nothing but reproaches.”

“I wish Mr. Denby were playing instead of poor Michael,” Nora remarked.

“Steve’s got the right idea,” Monty commented. “He’s in bed.”

“Great man, Denby,” said Michael. “He knows you can’t sit up all night unless you drink.”

“We’ll finish the rubber and then stop,” his wife said comfortingly. “Do remember it’s not poker.”

“I wish it were,” he exclaimed dolefully. “No partners—no reproaches—no post-mortems in poker. If you make a fool of yourself you lose your own money and everybody else is glad of it and gets cheerful.”

“After this then, one round of jacks to please Michael,” said Alice.

“And then quit,” Monty suggested. “I’m tired, too.”

“I’m not tired,” Michael asserted. “I’m only thirsty. It takes this form with me. When I’m thirsty—”

Michael stopped in consternation. Overhead, from all parts of the house, came the mechanical announcement that burglars had broken in. The four rose simultaneously from the table.

“Burglars!” cried Michael, looking from one to the other.

“Good Heavens!” Nora gasped.

“What shall we do?” cried Alice.

“It’s gone off by accident,” Monty asserted quivering, as there came suddenly the sound of a shot.

“Somebody’s killed!” Alice exclaimed, with an air of certainty.

Michael was the first to recover his poise. “Monty,” he commanded sternly, “go and find what’s the matter. I’ll look after the girls.”

Alice looked at him entreatingly. “You’d better go,” she said; “I shall feel safer if you see what it is. You’re not afraid, Michael?”

“Certainly not,” he said with dignity. “Of course they’re armed. Hello, who’s here?”

It was Lambart entering, bearing in his hand a .45 revolver.

“The burglar-alarm, sir,” he said, with as little excitement as he might have announced the readiness of dinner. “The indicator points to Mr. Denby’s room.”

“Good old Lambart,” his employer said heartily. “You go ahead, and we’ll follow. No, you keep the beastly thing,” he exclaimed, when the butler handed him the weapon. “You’re a better shot than I am, Lambart.”

“Mikey,” Alice called to him, “if you’re going to be killed, I want to be killed, too.”

The Harringtons followed the admirable Lambart up the stairway, while Nora gazed after them with a species of fascinated curiosity that was not compounded wholly of fear. Intensely alive to the vivid interest of these swiftly moving scenes through which she was passing, Nora—although she could scream with the best of them—was not in reality badly scared.

“I don’t want to be killed,” she announced with decision.

Monty moved to her side. He had an idea that if he must die or be arrested, he would like Nora to live on, cherishing the memory that he was a man.

“Neither do I!” he cried. “I wish I’d never gone into this. I knew when I dreamed about Sing Sing last night that it meant something.”

“Gone into what?” Nora demanded.

“I’m liable to get shot any minute.”

“What!” she cried anxiously.

“This may be my last five minutes on earth, Nora.”

“Oh, Monty,” she returned, “what have you done?” She looked at him in ecstatic admiration; never had he seemed so heroic and desirable. “Was it murder?”

“If I come out of it alive, will you marry me?” he asked desperately.

“Oh, Monty!” she exclaimed, and flung herself into his arms. “Why did you put it off so long?”

“I didn’t need your protection so much,” he told her; “and anyway it takes a crisis like this to make me say what I really feel.”

“I love you anyway, no matter what you’ve done,” she said contentedly.

He looked at her more brightly. “I’m the happiest man in the world,” he declared, “providing,” he added cautiously, “I don’t get shot.”

She raised her head from his shoulder and tapped the package in his pocket. “What’s that?” she asked.

“That’s my heart,” he said sentimentally.

“But why do you wear it on the right side?” she queried.

“Oh, that,” he said more gravely, “I’d forgotten all about it. It belongs to Steve. That shows I love you,” he added firmly; “I’d forgotten all about it.”

As he spoke there was the shrill call of a police whistle outside. “The police!” he gasped.

“Don’t let them get you,” she whispered. “They are coming this way.”

“Quick,” he said, grabbing her arm and leading her to a door. “We’ll hide here.” Now that danger, as he apprehended it, was definitely at hand, his spirits began to rise. He was of the kind which finds in suspense the greatest horror. They had barely reached the shelter of a door when Duncan and Gibbs ran in.

“Come on, Harry,” Duncan called to the slower man, “he’s upstairs. Get your gun ready.”

Nora clasped her lover’s hand tighter. “There’ll be some real shooting,” she whispered; “I hope Alice doesn’t get hurt. Listen!”

“The Chief’s got him for sure,” Gibbs panted, making his ascent at the best speed he could gather.

“They’ve gone,” Nora said, peering out; then she ventured into the hall. “Who’s the chief?” she asked.

“The chief of police I guess,” he groaned. “This is awful, Nora. I can’t have you staying here with all this going on. Go back into the card-room, and I’ll let you know what’s happened as soon as I can.”

“But what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to wait for Steve; he’s very likely to want me.”

“I’m not afraid,” Nora said airily.

“But I am,” he retorted; “I’m afraid for you. Be a good girl and do as I say, and I’ll come as soon as the trouble’s over.”

“I just hate to miss anything,” she pouted. “Still if you really wish it.” She looked at him more tenderly than he had ever seen her look at any human being before. “Don’t get killed, Monty, dear.”

Monty took her in his arms and kissed her. “I don’t want to,” he said, “especially now.”

When the door had shut behind her he took out the necklace with the idea of secreting it in an unfindable place. He remembered a Poe story where a letter was hidden in so obvious a spot that it defied Parisian commissaries of police. But the letters were usual things and pearl necklaces were not, and he took it down from the mantel where for a second he had let it lie, and rammed it under a sofa-cushion on the nearby couch. That, too, was not a brilliant idea and, while he was wondering if the pearls would dissolve if he dropped them in a decanter of whiskey on a table near him, there were loud voices heard at the head of the stairway, and he fled from the spot.