all that I can do here,
I ought to be getting back, at once. I ought, I think, to go to-night.
At ten-thirty there is a good service to the West, but I cannot leave
you alone here. I fear that death, in some way, must have overtaken
the people of this house, so that I cannot remain here, but must leave
the house to its fate. But about you, Rose? I cannot leave you, like
the house, to your fate!"

With the absolute trust of a little child, she stretched her hands
towards him, saying:

"Good George, my saviour already from one dreadful death, save me again
please. Take care of me until we get to England, take me with you, I
will be no expense to you, I will give no trouble, I will--"

Her clinging, child-like trust moved him greatly. He took the two
pretty, plump little hands in his, and holding them in a clasp, firm
and tight, as though by his grip upon her he would give her an
assurance of safety, he said:

"Take you with me, little one, of course I will. And now that is
settled we will talk over our plans, for I think we ought to leave by
that ten-thirty Western-bound service. Each hour after to-night, the
service will become more crowded, and we had better avoid the crowd, if
we can."

George Bullen had never had much to do with women. No woman had ever
quickened by one extra beat his heart or pulse. Yet now he felt
himself strangely, mysteriously drawn to this sweet young Lebanon girl.
He realized that it was no time for love-making, yet he would have been
of marble not to have been moved by her trust in him, and by her sweet,
gracious personality.

At ten-thirty that night they were clear of the place, and
homeward-bound to England.

CHAPTER XII.

ANTI-"WE-ISM."

Sir Archibald Carlyon, proprietor of the "Courier," and Ralph Bastin's
employer, had just arrived at the "Courier" office. The whilom
middle-aged, sprightly old man was as bowed and decrepit as a man of
ninety.

As he entered the editorial private room, Ralph, for one instant, did
not recognize him. Then, as he realized who it was, he sprang forward
with an almost son-like solicitude, and helped him to a chair.

"Sir Archibald, what has happened?" he cried.

The old man lifted weary, hopeless eyes, out of which all the old-time
flash had gone, and nothing but heavy dullness remained. "Have _you_
heard from my boy, from George?" he asked.

"No, why, is there anything the matter, Sir Archibald?" Ralph's tones
were full