ood two
inches of space, and she distinctly remembered not only closing it, but
also pushing it to make sure that it was fast. What should she do? To
her annoyance she felt a cold little feeling inside her and her hands
were trembling.

"If the lights were only on I'd take the risk," she thought; but the
lights were not on and it was necessary to pass into the dark interior
and into a darker bath-room--a room which is notoriously adaptable for
murder--before she could reach the meter.

"Rubbish, Matilda!" she scoffed quaveringly, "go in, you frightened
little rabbit--you forgot to shut the door, that's all."

She pushed the door open and with a shiver stepped inside.

Then a sound made her stop dead. It was a shuffle and a creak such as a
dog might make if he brushed against the chair.

"Who's there?" she demanded.

There was no reply.

"Who's there?"

She took one step forward and then something reached out at her. A big
hand gripped her by the sleeve of her blouse and she heard a deep
breathing.

She bit her lips to stop the scream that arose, and with a wrench tore
herself free, leaving a portion of a sleeve in the hands of the unknown.

She darted backward, slamming the door behind her. In two flying strides
she was at the door of No. 4, hammering with both her fists.

"Drunk or sober he is a man! Drunk or sober he is a man!" she muttered
incoherently.

Only twice she beat upon the door when it opened suddenly and Mr. Beale
stood in the doorway.

"What is it?"

She hardly noticed his tone.

"A man--a man, in my flat," she gasped, and showed her torn sleeve, "a
man...!"

He pushed her aside and made for the door.

"The key?" he said quickly.

With trembling fingers she extracted it from her pocket.

"One moment."

He disappeared into his own flat and presently came out holding an
electric torch. He snapped back the lock, put the key in his pocket and
then, to her amazement, he slipped a short-barrelled revolver from his
hip-pocket.

With his foot he pushed open the door and she watched him vanish into
the gloomy interior.

Presently came his voice, sharp and menacing:

"Hands up!"

A voice jabbered something excitedly and then she heard Mr. Beale speak.

"Is your light working?--you can come in, I have him in the
dining-room."

She stepped into the bath-room, the shilling dropped through the
aperture, the screw grated as she turned it and the lights sprang to
life.

In one corn