rulously.

He manoeuvred the two men toward the door and then prepared to follow
them.

"Klara!" he called again.

"Coming, father," she replied.

She came running out of the room, and as she reached the door she called
to Andor.

"Andor, you have not said good-night," she said significantly.

"Never mind about that now," said Ignacz Goldstein fretfully, "I shall
miss my train."

He kissed his daughter perfunctorily, then said:

"There's no one in the tap-room now, is there? I didn't notice."

"No," she replied, "no one just now."

"Then I'd keep the door shut, if I were you. I'd rather those fellows
back from Arad didn't come in to-night. The open door would attract
them--a closed one might have the effect of speeding them on their way."

"Very well, father," she said indifferently, "I'll keep the door
closed."

"And mind you push all the bolts home to both the doors," he added
sternly. "A girl alone in a house cannot be too careful."

"All right, father," she rejoined impatiently, "I'll see to everything.
Haven't I been alone like this before?"

The other two men were going down the verandah steps. Goldstein went out
too now and slammed the door behind him.

And Klara found herself alone in the house.

CHAPTER XXVI

"What had Andor done?"

She waited for a moment with her ear glued to the front door until the
last echo of the men's footsteps had completely died away in the
distance, then she ran to the table. The tray was there, but no key upon
it. With feverish, jerky movements she began to hunt for it, pushing
aside bottles and mugs, opening drawers, searching wildly with dilated
eyes all round the room.

The key was here, somewhere . . . surely, surely Andor had not played
her false . . . he would not play her false . . . He was not that sort
. . . surely, surely he was not that sort. He had come back from his
errand--of course she had seen him just now, and . . . and he had said
nothing certainly, but . . .

Well! He can't have gone far; and her father wouldn't hear if she
called. She ran back to the door and fumbled at the latch, for her hands
trembled so that she bruised them against the iron. There! At last it
was done! She opened the door and peered out into the night. Everything
was still, not a footstep echoed from down the street. She took one step
out, on to the verandah . . . then she heard a rustle from behind the
pollarded acacia tree and a rustle amongst its leaves. S