The time for supper passed, and no Marie.

The landlady sent up a tray to Peter, stewed meat and potatoes, a salad, coffee.  Peter sat in a corner with his back to Stewart and ate ravenously.  He had had nothing since the morning’s coffee.  After that he sat down again by the bed to watch.  There was little to do but watch.

The meal had made him drowsy.  He thought of his pipe.  Perhaps if he got some fresh air and a smoke!  He remembered the balcony.

It was there on the balcony that he found Marie, a cowering thing that pushed his hands away when he would have caught her and broke into passionate crying.

“I cannot!  I cannot!”

“Cannot what?” demanded Peter gently, watching her.  So near was the balcony rail!

“Throw myself over.  I’ve tried, Peter.  I cannot!”

“I should think not!” said Peter sternly.  “Just now when we need you, too!  Come in and don’t be a foolish child.”

But Marie would not go in.  She held back, clinging tight to Peter’s big hand, moaning out in the dialect of the people that always confused him her story of the day, of what she had done, of watching Stewart brought back, of stealing into the house and through an adjacent room to the balcony, of her desperation and her cowardice.

She was numb with cold, exhaustion, and hunger, quite childish, helpless.  Peter stood out on the balcony with his arm round her, while the night wind beat about them, and pondered what was best to do.  He thought she might come in and care for Stewart, at least, until he was conscious.  He could get her some supper.

“How can I?” she asked.  “I was seen.  They are searching for me now.  Oh, Peter!  Peter!”

“Who is searching for you?  Who saw you?”

“The people in the Russian villa.”

“Did they see your face?”

“I wore a veil.  I think not.”

“Then come in and change your clothes.  There is a train down at midnight.  You can take it.”

“I have no money.”

This raised a delicate question.  Marie absolutely refused to take Stewart’s money.  She had almost none of her own.  And there were other complications—­where was she to go?  The family of the injured girl did not suspect her since they did not know of her existence.  She might get away without trouble.  But after that, what?

Peter pondered this on the balcony, while Marie in the bedroom was changing her clothing, soaked with a day in the snow.  He came to the inevitable decision, the decision he knew at the beginning that he was going to make.

“If I could only put it up to Harmony first!” he reflected.  “But she will understand when I tell her.  She always understands.”

Standing there on the little balcony, with tragedy the thickness of a pine board beyond him, Peter experienced a bit of the glow of the morning, as of one who stumbling along in a dark place puts a hand on a friend.