He turned around.  Mrs. Weatherley was standing just behind him, leaning also out of the window, with a little halo of light about her head.  For a moment he was powerless to answer.  Her head was thrown back, her lips parted.  She seemed to be listening as well as watching.  There was fear in her eyes as she looked at him, yet she made the most beautiful picture he had ever seen.  He pulled himself together.

“Well?” she asked, breathlessly.

“I was waiting here for you,” he explained.  “I looked through the curtains.  Then I saw a man’s hand upon the sill.”

   [Illustration:  “I was waiting here for you,” he explained.
   Page 39.]

Her hand shot to her side.

“Go on,” she whispered.

“I saw his face,” Arnold continued.  “It was pressed close to the window.  It was as though he meant to enter.  I threw the curtains back, opened the window, and gripped him by the arm.  I asked him what he wanted.”

She sat down in a chair and began to tremble.

“He said he wanted Rosario, the Jew,” Arnold went on.  “Then, when he found that I was a stranger, he got away.  I don’t know how he managed it, for my fingers are strong enough, but he wrenched himself free somehow.”

“Look out once more,” she implored.  “See if he is anywhere around.  I will speak to him.”

He stood at the window and looked in every direction.

“There is no one in sight,” he declared.  “I will go to the corner of the street, if you like.”

She shook her head.

“Close the window and bolt it, please,” she begged.  “Draw the curtains tight.  Now come and sit down here for a moment.”

He did as he was bidden with some reluctance.

“The man was a villainous-looking creature,” he persisted.  “I don’t think that he was up to any good.  Look!  There’s a policeman almost opposite.  Shall I go and tell him?”

She put out her hand and clasped his, drawing him down to her side.  Then she looked steadfastly into his face.

“Mr. Chetwode,” she said slowly, “women have many disadvantages in life, but they have had one gift bestowed upon them in which they trust always.  It is the gift of instinct.  You are very young, and I know very little about you, but I know that you are to be trusted.”

“If I could serve you,” he murmured,—­

“You can,” she interrupted.

Then for a time she was silent.  Some new emotion seemed to move her.  Her face was softer than he had ever seen it, her beautiful eyes dimmer.  His mind was filled with new thoughts of her.

“Mrs. Weatherley,” he pleaded, “please do believe in me, do trust me.  I mean absolutely what I say when I tell you there is nothing in the world I would not do to save you from trouble or alarm.”

Her moment of weakness was over.  She flashed one wonderful smile at him and rose to her feet.

“It is agreed,” she declared.  “When I need help—­and it may be at any moment—­I shall call upon you.”