At the other end of the great room were the entrance stairs to the harem, and there, he imagined, a watchman was stationed, or else stout bolts and bars were guarding the situation.  There remained an arched doorway into other formal rooms through which he had seen Aimee and the guests disappear for the wedding supper, and that way led, he surmised, down into the service quarters.

A sorry choice of exits!  He could form no plan in advance but trust blindly to the amazing chances of adventure.  And first, before he rushed for escape, there was Aimee to find.

Yet for all the mad hazard of the situation he was elated with life.  He felt as if he had never fully lived until now, when every breath was informed with the sharp prescience of danger.  He was at once cool and exultant, wary yet reckless, with the joyous recklessness of utter desperation.

With cat-like care he surveyed the drawing-room; it appeared deserted but as he watched his tense nerves could see the shadows forming, taking furtive, crouching shape—­and then dissolving harmlessly into a rug, a chair, or a stirring drapery.  His eyes grown used to the dimness he identified the mantle upon the floor in which he had come and which he had extended to Aimee in that brief moment of fatuous triumph, and beyond it, across a chair, was the portiere which the black had torn down from the doorway to wrap about Ryder’s helpless form as he had carried him down to living death.

That mantle, he thought, might yet be useful, and he stole forward and recovered it, but, as he straightened, another shadow darted out from the boudoir door and silhouetted for an instant against the lighted, room he saw a figure in a long, swinging military cloak.

Discovery was inevitable and Ryder made a swift plunge to take the cloaked figure by surprise, but even as one hand shot out and gripped the throat while the other held his threatening iron aloft, his clutch relaxed, his arm fell nervelessly at his side.

For from the figure had come the broken gasp of a soft voice, and the face upturned to his was a pale oval under dark, disordered hair.

“Aimee!” he breathed in exultant, still half-incredulous joy.  “Aimee!...  Did I hurt you—?”

“Oh, no, no!” came Aimee’s shaken voice.  “Oh, you are safe!”

He felt her trembling in his clasp and he swept her close to him.  For one breathless instant they clung together, in a sharp, passionate gladness which blurred every sense of dread or danger.  They were safe—­they were together—­and for the moment it was enough.  Every obstacle was surmounted, every terror conquered.

They clung, obliviously, like children, her pale face against his shoulder, her hair brushing his lips, her wild heartbeats throbbing against his own.

Then the girl, remembering, lifted her head.

“Quick—­we must go,” she whispered.  “For there I made a fire—­”

He followed her frightened, backward glance at the boudoir door and suddenly saw its cracks and key hole strangely radiant with light.