Allston tiptoed through the kitchen and outdoors to see if her light was burning. Her window was dark. The wind whipped his face and drove him in. Still he was not satisfied. Action whetted his fears. It became necessary now, if he hoped to get any rest, to allay his anxiety once for all. Striking a match he made his way up the stairs to the door of Roxie’s room. It was closed, but he listened there for sound of her breathing. He heard nothing, but that proved nothing. Reluctantly and not at all sure of the explanation of his action he could give if she did answer, he knocked. He received no reply and knocked again--louder this time. But even so he was held back by his dread of rousing the rest of the household. It would be easier, should his alarm prove groundless, to explain his conduct to Roxie than to either Howe or Wilmer. The continued silence became ominous and oppressive. He was finding it difficult to breathe as though the hall were being exhausted of air. Cautiously he turned the handle and pushed. The door opened, but the room was in utter darkness. He whispered her name: “Roxie.” Then: “Are you there, Roxie?” Silence now gave him a direct answer. He struck a match and held it above his head. The bureau drawers were open and one shoe stood in the middle of the room. The white bed was empty and undisturbed. On the table he saw a lamp and lighted this. Then he caught sight of the note on the pillow. The fact it was addressed to him was significant. Under ordinary circumstances she would have written to Wilmer. As he read, every word justified his suspicions. But at the sentence, “Please don’t hunt for me,” he saw as clear as daylight the hand of Bud Childers in the affair. The note dropped from Allston’s nervous fingers to the floor. He did not pick it up. He knew every word by heart. For two hours she had been calling to him and he had not answered. But why, if in danger, had she not called upon him when he sought her after dinner and offered his aid? The note answered that. She was trying to protect him. In some way, by some ruse, Bud had bullied her into following him and she had deliberately sacrificed her one chance of escape. The inevitable deduction swept Allston back to that night at the bend in the road when she stood before him with her head tilted back and her eyes closed. In her white dress silvered with moonlight she had made a romantic figure. She was like some gentle creature sung of in idyls. A man might well pray to be saved from such a temptation as she offered him then. He had not been insensible, though, thank God, he had held steady. It had for him been but a passing moment, but for her it had meant more. He saw it now--fool that he had been. He saw it now when it was possibly too late. There was one chance in a hundred that Roxie had gone home. After that the chances were a hundred to one that she had gone with Bud Childers. It was now ten o’clock. Within two hours he would know.