uled a comrade, who stabbed and sprang away. They
heard the man fall and move upon the floor like a dying fish, with
sounds of choking. Then the door was before them, and, crawling
still, with infinite pains to be noiseless, they passed through it.
From within the room the choking noises followed them till they
gained the open air.

The tortuous alley received them like a refuge; they fled along it
with lightened hearts, taking all turnings that might baffle a chase,
till at last Miss Gregory smelt acacias and they issued again into
the little square. To Miss Gregory it was almost amazing that the
cafes should still be lighted, their tables thronged, the music
insistent. While history had paced for her the world had stood still.
She stood and looked across at the lights thoughtfully.

The youth at her side coughed. "The least I can do," he suggested
inanely, "is ask you to 'ave a cup of coffee, ma'am."

Miss Gregory turned on him sharply.

"And then?" she asked. "After the coffee, what then?"

He shuffled his feet uneasily. "Well, ma'am," he said; "this hole in
my back is more'n a bit painful. So I thought I'd get along to the
hotel an' have a lie down."

She looked at him thoughtfully. Her head was bare, and the night
breeze from the sea whipped a strand of grey hair across her brow.
She brushed it away a little wearily.

"Unless there's anything more I can do for you," suggested the young
man smoothly.

Anything more he could do for her! She smiled, considering him. The
events of the night had not ruffled him; his blonde face was still
mild, insignificant, plebeian. Of such men slaves are made; their
part is to obey orders, to be without responsibility, to be guided,
governed, and protected by their betters. Miss Gregory, sister of a
Major-General, friend of Colonial Governors, aunt of a Member of
Parliament, author of "The Saharan Solitudes," and woman of the
world, saw that she had served her purpose, her work was done.

"Thank you," she said; "there is nothing more. You had better go to
bed at once."

There was a broken fountain in the middle of the square, overgrown
with sickly lichen, and round it ran a stone bench. The acacias
sheltered it, and a dribble of water from the conduit sounded always,
fitting itself to one's thoughts in a murmuring cadence. Here Miss
Gregory disposed herself, and here the dawn found her, a little
disheveled, and looking rather old with the chill of that bleak hour
before