and masses of sheeting it looked crudely bright in the glare of
electricity switched on by Logan. A glance at the closed bay window
showed that outside the glass was a screen of unpainted wood. There
was no door save that through which Win had just entered.

All the furniture was pushed against the walls, except a writing-desk
with gilded legs, which stood in the embrasure of the big window, and
to this the girl ran softly, on tiptoe, across the bare parquet floor.
It was covered with sheeting, which she turned carefully back that
nothing might be disturbed and, in falling, make a noise. Almost she
had reached the limit of her strength and had no breath even to
whisper the "Thank heaven!" she felt, seeing what she had prayed to
find--a telephone and directory.

It was the hope of this that had upheld her through the scene which
already seemed dreamlike. But though telephone and book were here, she
was far enough yet from being out of danger. She had not seen the
house number, as the boards which covered the front door covered it
also. Knowing the street and the name of the man who owned the house
(if Logan had told the truth), she could find the telephone number in
the book, but it meant a waste of time.

And then, Logan might have lied. This might not be his father's house.
Or, if it were, the telephone might have been cut off for the summer
in the family's absence. She could not be sure of that till the last
moment, for the instant Logan heard her talk he would try to tear her
away from the telephone. If only there were a key or a bolt--the
frailest, slightest bolt, just strong enough to keep the man out for
five minutes! But it was useless to wish for what could not be. She
must do her best with the ammunition at hand, and be quick about it,
for here was her fort of refuge, and she must hold it while she fired
her one shot.

On the desk lay a large tortoise-shell paper knife. That, thrust under
the door as a wedge, would be almost as good as a lock. At least she
might count on it to protect her for those so necessary five minutes.
But if she pushed it through to the other side Jim Logan would see the
flat, brown blade stick out like a defiant tongue over the door sill,
if he were in the hall keeping watch. Knowing that she could not
escape, perhaps he had returned to the dining-room, perhaps he was
giving instructions to his servant--perhaps any one of a dozen things,
yet she could not count on any of them!

Sh