Clutching the crumpled bit of paper, Wilmer came back to the sitting-room. When the note had been written, she had no way of knowing, but the undisturbed bed indicated that it was the evening before. Roxie was generally asleep by ten. She had been gone, then, some seven hours. But why had she left at such an hour if with Bud? She had heard the girl in the kitchen until after nine, and that was too late for the completion of even a runaway match. There was an element of the inexplicable here which urged her to seek Allston at once. And, besides, she wanted him for herself. Here was an emergency demanding action, and she turned to this man as naturally as, a day ago, she would have turned to her father. As soon as this, he had slipped into place by her side. He was there to help whenever she needed help. And he was there in a more vital sense than ever her father had been. If the latter was a wise counselor, he also stood in need of counsel; if a protector, he also was often in need of protection. If he was her right hand, she was his left hand. But Allston stood out full-bodied, by himself. He needed no assistance. He could relieve her wholly of such a responsibility as this. And yet, as she made her way up the stairs and down the hallway to his room, she began to question. To give him this note was to rouse him. To place this situation before him was to lead him into danger. For he would follow Roxie. There was no doubt about that. He would follow until he learned whether the girl had entered upon this mad venture of her own volition or not. That involved a terrible risk. Wilmer, a few feet from his door, paused, leaning against the wall for support. If she waited a few hours, then he might seek help on his mission. A dozen men from the village would be willing to accompany him on such an errand. With the house surrounded, Bud would be forced to explain or to surrender. But if Roxie were in actual danger, then a few hours might mark the difference between life and death, between honor and dishonor. It was a cruel dilemma in which to place a woman in so brief a time after she had awakened to the full realization of love. It made little difference that her love had not yet been confessed--even that she had no assurance that it would be reciprocated. Once she had made the admission to herself, it existed--even if she lived the rest of her years with lips tight sealed. To her it was a reality at this moment--a stupendous reality. She loved as only a woman can love who has fought against love. It burned within her now like a white-hot flame.