er, opened a door in the passage, motioned her
to enter. It was a bedroom that the electric light revealed. The woman
entered and stood by the bed as though stupefied.

"I'll keep my word to you," said Ilse Dumont. "When it becomes too
late for you to do us any mischief, I'll return and let you go."

And she stepped back across the threshold and locked the door on the
outside.

As she did so, Neeland and Sengoun came swiftly up the stairs, and she
beckoned them to follow, gathered the skirts of her evening gown into
one hand, and ran up the stairs ahead of them to the fifth floor.

In the dim light Neeland saw that the top floor was merely a vast
attic full of debris from the cafe on the ground floor--iron tables
which required mending or repainting, iron chairs, great jars of
artificial stone with dead baytrees standing in them, parts of rusty
stoves and kitchen ranges, broken cutlery in boxes, cracked table
china and heavier kitchen crockery in tubs which once had held
flowers.

The only windows gave on a court. Through their dirty panes already
the grey light of that early Sunday morning glimmered, revealing the
contents of the shadowy place, and the position of an iron ladder
hooked to two rings under the scuttle overhead.

Ilse Dumont laid her finger on her lips, conjuring silence, then,
clutching her silken skirts, she started up the iron ladder, reached
the top, and, exerting all her strength, lifted the hinged scuttle
leading to the leads outside.

Instantly somebody challenged her in a guttural voice. She stood there
a few moments in whispered conversation, then, from outside, somebody
lowered the scuttle cover; the girl locked it, descended the iron
ladder backwards, and came swiftly across to where Neeland and Sengoun
were standing, pistols lifted.

"They're guarding the roof," she whispered, "--two men. It is
hopeless, that way."

"The proper way," said Sengoun calmly, "is for us to shoot our way out
of this!"

The girl turned on him in a passion:

"Do you suppose I care what happens to _you_?" she said. "If there
were no one else to consider you might do as you pleased, for all it
concerns me!"

Sengoun reddened:

"Be silent, you treacherous little cat!" he retorted. "Do you imagine
your riffraff are going to hold _me_ here when I'm ready to depart!
_Me!_ A free Cossack! Bah!"

"Don't talk that way, Sengoun," said Neeland sharply. "We owe these
pistols to her."

"Oh," muttered Sengoun,