----"

"No, I don't. But it's perfectly fine of you to care."

"C-care? I'm a little frightened, of course.... Anybody would be.... Oh,
I wish you were out and p-perfectly safe." "If I thought you could ever
really care what became of a man like me----"

Killian Van K. Vanderdynk's aristocratic senses began gyrating; he
grasped the bars, the back of his hand brushed against hers, and the
momentary contact sent a shock straight through the scion of that
celebrated race.

She seated herself abruptly; a delicate color grew, staining her face.

Neither spoke. A long, luminous sunbeam fell across the landing, touching
the edge of her hair till it glimmered like bronze afire. The sensitive
mouth was quiet, the eyes, very serious, were lifted from time to time,
then lowered, thoughtfully, to the clasped fingers on her knee.

Could it be possible? How could it be possible?--with a man she had never
before chanced to meet--with a man she had seen for the first time in her
life only an hour or so ago! Such things didn't happen outside of short
stories. There was neither logic nor common decency in it. Had she or had
she not any ordinary sense remaining?

She raised her eyes and looked at the heir of the Vanderdynks.

Of course anybody could see he was unusually attractive--that he had that
indefinable something about him which is seldom, if ever, seen outside of
fiction or of Mr. Gibson's drawings--perhaps it is entirely confined to
them--except in this one very rare case.

Sacharissa's eyes fell.

Another unusual circumstance was engaging her attention, namely, that his
rather remarkable physical perfection appeared to be matched by a
breeding quite as faultless, and a sublimity of courage in the face of
destruction itself, which----

Sacharissa lifted her gray eyes.

There he stood, suspended over an abyss, smoking a cigarette, bravely
forcing himself to an attitude of serene insouciance, while the basement
yawned for him! Machine or no machine, how could any girl look upon such
miraculous self-control unmoved? _She_ could not. It was natural that a
woman should be deeply thrilled by such a spectacle--and William Destyn's
machine had nothing to do with it--not a thing! Neither had psychology,
nor demonology, nor anything, with wires or wireless. She liked him,
frankly. Who wouldn't? She feared for him, desperately. Who wouldn't?
She----

"C-r-rack!"

"Oh--_what_ is it!" she cried, springing to the grille.

"I