in her life; these had been met before, and now, in yet another guise, they could be courageously met again.  She sat up quickly upon the edge of the bed, her hands pressing back the heavy hair from off her hot forehead.  What right had she to lie there shuddering at destiny when lives—­his life—­might be trembling in the balance?  She could at least serve, and, whatever else of weakness may have lurked in Beth Norvell, there was no germ of cowardice.  Clearer and more clear she perceived duty, until it overshadowed love and brought her upon her feet in active preparation, in burning desire for action.

Standing before the little mirror, she wondered dimly at those dark circles beneath her eyes, the unusually sharp lines visible at the corners of her mouth.  She felt hot, feverish, and in hope of thus relieving the painful throbbing of her temples she buried her face in the bowl of cool water.  Rapidly, almost carelessly, she gathered up her dishevelled locks, fastening them in some simple, yet secure fashion back out of the way.  From the open trunk standing against the wall, she caught up a plain, soft hat, one she had used in character upon the stage, and drew it down firmly over the mass of soft hair, never noting how coquettishly the wide brim swept up in front, or what witchery of archness it gave to her dark eyes.  She took a quick step toward the door, and then, her hand already on the latch, she paused in uncertainty; finally, she drew a small, pearl-handled revolver from the bottom tray, and placed it carefully in a pocket of her jacket.

“I—­I hardly believe I could ever use it,” she thought, “but maybe I might.”

Outside, in the narrow, deserted hall, she stood at the head of the steep flight of stairs and listened.  The snoring of the drunken man in the office below was the only disturbing sound.  Out through the open office door a dull bar of yellow light streamed across the lower steps.  Like a ghost she stole silently down, treading so softly not a stair creaked beneath her cautious footfalls.  The next moment she had opened the door, and was alone in the dark street.

Dark it was, but neither deserted nor silent.  The unleashed evil of San Juan was now in full control, more madly riotous than ever beneath the cloak of so late an hour.  Nothing short of complete return of daylight would bring semblance of peace to that carnival of saloons, gambling dens, and dance halls.  Through the shadows stalked unrebuked, uncontrolled, the votaries of dissipation and recklessness, of “easy money” and brutal lust.  Yellow rays of light streamed from out dirty, uncurtained windows, leaving the narrow street weirdly illuminated, with here and there patches of dense shadows.  Shifting figures, often unsteady of step, appeared and disappeared like disembodied spirits, distorted from all human semblance by that uncertain radiance; on every side the discordant sounds of violins and pianos commingled in one hideous din, punctuated by drunken shouts and every species of noise of which civilized savagery is capable.