a match and consulted the compass--"

Peter's fingers closed.

"Quick," he said.

Stewart's manner lost its jauntiness.

"There was a girl there," he said shortly. "Couldn't see her. She spoke
English. Said she didn't live here, and broke for the gate the minute I
got to the path."

"You didn't see her?"

"No. Nice voice, though. Young."

The next moment he was alone. Peter in his dressing-gown was running
down the staircase to the lower floor, was shouting to the Portier to
unlock the door, was a madman in everything but purpose. The Portier let
him out and returned to the bedroom.

"The boy above is worse," he said briefly. "A strange doctor has just
come, and but now the Herr Doktor Byrne runs to the drug store."

The Portier's wife shrugged her shoulders even while tears filled her
eyes.

"What can one expect?" she demanded. "The good Herr Gott has forbidden
theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen. Also the druggist has gone to
visit his wife's mother."

"Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up."

"And see for a moment that hussy of the streets! Remain here. I shall
go."

Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs.

Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor. He found Peter's
excitement rather amusing. So this was where Peter lived, an old house,
isolated in a garden where rambled young women with soft voices. Hello,
a youngster asleep! The boy, no doubt.

He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie. The place
was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung the indescribable odor of
drugs that meant illness. He remembered that the boy was frail.

Marie turned as he stopped in the salon doorway, and then rose,
white-faced. Across the wide spaces of the room they eyed each other.
Marie's crisis had come. Like all crises it was bigger than speech. It
was after a distinct pause that she spoke.

"Hast thou brought the police?"

Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart's mental
condition at that moment. He had never loved the girl; it was with
tremendous relief he had put her out of his life. And yet--

"So it's old Peter now, is it?"

"No, no, not that, Walter. He has given me shelter, that is all. I swear
it. I look after the boy."

"Who else is here?"

"No one else; but--"

"Tell that rot to some one who does not know you."

"It is true. He never even looks at me. I am wicked, but I do not lie."
There was a catch of hope in her voice. Ma