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!

She took the paper knife, and holding it firmly by its carved handle, she put the blade under the sole of her foot and thus snapped it off short.

The thick end, still attached to the handle, was just not too thick to push part way under the door.  Win could only hope that it might hold when need came.

Now for the book!  As she began turning over the pages she found that her hands were trembling.  She had to repeat the alphabet from the beginning before she could remember where the letter “L” came in.

Yes, there was the name—­Logan.  There were many Logans, but only one in this particular street.  With a blunt pencil attached to a small writing-pad she scribbled down the telephone and house number to have them before her eyes, lest in her frantic excitement she might confuse the two in her mind.