"Through your back window," said Gertrude, "to answer the last question first. The other needs a longer answer; but if you'll come with me I can show you the place and get poor Mary out--for she is 'ill and in prison.' But you'd better get help, for the place where we've been confined is watched, I should say." "I'll get Bailey. Please sit down and wait quietly." And Allingham led her to his most comfortable chair. "I'll be back in two minutes." And he went out, clicking the latch together after him. "A prisoner again," said Gertrude to herself. "But this time a safe one, thank God." It was hardly sixty seconds before Allingham was around the corner and entering the drug-store where Bailey had promised to be. He was there, waiting. "O, Bailey, she is safe. She is found. She is in my office," said Allingham, in a low, rapid tone. "Mary? Thank God!--where?" said Bailey. "Mary?--no, Gertrude--Miss Van Deusen, I mean," he stammered, wonderingly. "Mary Snow is still incarcerated somewhere about here. Come quick. I'll telephone for the chief again. He cannot have got to bed yet." By this time they were upstairs and at Allingham's door, for they had not done their talking standing still. Allingham produced his key. "We must get them both home tonight," he said, and opened the door. "O, Bailey!" cried Gertrude, coming forward impulsively. "I'm so glad you've come." And then Bailey answered, "O, Gertie," and throwing his arms around her, kissed her affectionately on the brow. "O, Gertie, where have you been? And where is Mary?" "And how did you get here?" Allingham wanted to ask this question, but the sight of that kiss had seemed to paralyze him. It was Bailey, then, who had won her love--Bailey, on whom life showered every blessing, whom all women loved, whom everybody admired. And he--what a fool he was! So he only went to the telephone and called up the private residence of the chief of police. "Got in? I was afraid you'd gone to bed," he said. "Well, Miss Van Deusen is in this office--what? Yes--I say, Miss Van Deusen is here. Yes, in my office. How? I don't know myself yet. But we must get Miss Snow at once. Come up quick. Can you get your men? Yes, all right. We'll wait for you. Good-by." "Hurry up, Jack," said Bailey. "Gertie's story's waiting for you. Now, old girl, go ahead." "Nice, respectful way to address your mayor," laughed Gertrude, to whom the world had suddenly become a broader and brighter place than ever. "Well, then here goes." She began at the beginning of her story and told how she and Mary Snow had set out for Newton Fitzgerald's sick bed; how they had been trapped, and how the days had dragged in the flat. "We wrote a score of notes on leaves torn from Mary's diary," she went on, "and tucked them out of the top of the window and under the bottom of the door. But nothing ever came of them." Allingham handed her the slip of washed-out paper that still lay on his desk.