Rita’s fur coat hung upon the rack, and although her fingers appeared to have lost all their strength and her arm to have become weak as that of an infant, she succeeded in detaching the coat from the hook.  Not pausing to put it on, she opened the door and stumbled out on to the darkened landing.  Whereas her first impulse had been to awaken someone, preferably Sir Lucien, now her sole desire was to escape undetected.

She began to feel less dizzy, and having paused for a moment on the landing, she succeeded in getting her coat on.  Then she closed the door as quietly as possible, and clutching the handrail began to grope her way downstairs.  There was only one flight, she remembered, and a short passage leading to the street door.  She reached the passage without mishap, and saw a faint light ahead.

The fastenings gave her some trouble, but finally her efforts were successful, and she found herself standing in deserted Duke Street.  There was no moon, but the sky was cloudless.  She had no idea of the time, but because of the stillness of the surrounding streets she knew that it must be very late.  She set out for her flat, walking slowly and wondering what explanation she should offer if a constable observed her.

Oxford Street showed deserted as far as the eye could reach, and her light footsteps seemed to awaken a hundred echoes.  Having proceeded for some distance without meeting anyone, she observed—­and experienced a childish alarm—­the head-lights of an approaching car.  Instantly the idea of hiding presented itself to her, but so rapidly did the big automobile speed along the empty thoroughfare that Rita was just passing a street lamp as the car raced by, and she must therefore have been clearly visible to the occupants.

Never for a moment glancing aside, Rita pressed on as quickly as she could.  Then her vague alarm became actual terror.  She heard the brakes being applied to the car, and heard the gritty sound of the tires upon the roadway as the vehicle’s headlong progress was suddenly checked.  She had been seen—­perhaps recognized, and whoever was in the car proposed to return to speak to her.

If her strength had allowed she would have run, but now it threatened to desert her altogether and she tottered weakly.  A pattering of footsteps came from behind.  Someone was running back to overtake her.  Recognizing escape to be impossible, Rita turned just as the runner came up with her.

“Rita!” he cried, rather breathlessly.  “Miss Dresden!”

She stood very still, looking at the speaker.

It was Monte Irvin.

CHAPTER XV

METAMORPHOSIS

As Irvin seized her hands and looked at her eagerly, half-fearfully, Rita achieved sufficient composure to speak.

“Oh, Mr. Irvin,” she said, and found that her voice was not entirely normal, “what must you think—­”