“You don’t mind?” she begged.  “I couldn’t even think of going to sleep.  I should sit up all night, anyhow.”

“Not a bit,” he assured her.  “I don’t think it would be much use thinking about bed.”

He made his way back into Isaac’s apartments, brought out her couch and arranged it by the window.  She lay down with a little sigh of relief.  Then he dragged up his own easy chair to her side and held her hand.  They heard Big Ben strike two o’clock, and soon afterwards Arnold began to doze.  When he awoke, with a sudden start, her hand was still in his.  Eastward, over the city, a faint red glow hung in the heavens.  The world was still silent, but in the delicate, pearly twilight the trees in the gardens, the bridge, and the buildings in the distance—­everything seemed to stand out with a peculiar and unfamiliar distinctness.  She, too, was sitting up, and they looked out of the window together.  Five o’clock was striking now.

“I’ve been asleep!” Arnold exclaimed.  “Something woke me up.”

She nodded.

“There is some one knocking at the door outside,” she whispered.  “That is what woke you.  I heard it several minutes ago.”

He jumped up at once.

“I will go and see what it is,” he declared.

He opened the door and looked out onto the landing.  The knocking was at the door of Isaac’s apartment.  Two policemen and a man in plain clothes were standing there.

“There is no one in those rooms,” Arnold said.  “The door shuts with a spring lock, but I have a key here, if you wish to enter.”

The sergeant looked at Arnold and approved of him.

“I have an order to remove some firearms and other articles,” he announced.  “Also, can you tell me where the young woman—­Ruth Lalonde—­is?”

“She is in my room,” Arnold replied.  “She was too terrified to remain alone over there.  You don’t want her, do you?” he asked, anxiously.

The man shook his head.

“I have no definite instructions concerning her,” he said, “but we should like to know that she has no intention of going away.”

Arnold threw open the door before them.

“I am sure that she has not,” he declared.  “She is quite an invalid, and besides, she has nowhere else to go.”

The sergeant gave a few orders respecting the movement of a pile of articles covered over by a tablecloth, which had been dragged out of Isaac’s room.  Before he had finished, Arnold ventured upon the question which had been all the time trembling upon his lips.

“This man Isaac Lalonde—­was he arrested?”

The sergeant made no immediate reply.

“Tell me, at least, was any one hurt?” Arnold begged.

“No one was shot, if you mean that,” the sergeant admitted.

“Is Isaac in custody?”

“He very likely is by this time,” the sergeant said.  “As a matter of fact, he got away.  A friend of yours, is he?”