The old man’s head sank on his breast. "That I should live to see this night," he sobbed. "I love her—little—leddyship—and she—out there!" He slowly took the keys from his pocket and laid them on the table. Thurston listened intently. "She has gone back to the cab," he thought. "She is speaking to the cabby." He heard the door of the cab slammed and the sound of receding wheels. "She has returned to the hotel. A little longer, and I might have—" He put his hand to his head, which was burning. "Jennings, I’ll try and get an hour’s sleep." "Shall I help you, sir?" "No, thank you. I shall probably come down again." He mounted the stairs heavily to his room, and threw himself, dressed as he was, upon the lounge. It was only to live, again and again, through the scene which had been enacted below. He heard the knock—first faint, then louder, still louder. He saw Jennings break down, sobbing, then take the keys from his pocket and lay them on the table. He listened intently. He heard the door of the cab slam. He heard it drive away—over his heart. She had forced him to this. And he had kept his word to her. He had not given in. She would never know, never care to know, perhaps, what it had cost him. He tossed restlessly. Jennings still waited below in the library. Thurston had said he would come down again. There was no light but the fire, near which the old man stood, a little, heart-broken figure. Suddenly the sound of low sobbing fell on his ears. He lifted his head quickly, listening like a watchdog. Then he went to the door and looked into the hall. Hearing nothing, he approached the fire again. The faint sobbing continued. Jennings shivered with a slight sensation of fear. The sound was uncanny in the dark room, at that hour. Again he listened, every nerve on the alert. "It’s outside," he suddenly concluded. He went to the window, opened it and peered out. The night was not utterly black, but lit faintly by the rays of a watery moon. Jennings distinguished a white object below on the steps. "Jennings!" called a familiar voice. "God! Her little leddyship—on the steps—in the cold!" "Is it you, Jennings?" "Yes, yer little leddyship," he whispered down, his body half out the window. "I can’t open the door, yer leddyship. Hush! don’t call out—wait!" He tottered to the hall, in fear of Thurston, and listened. Hearing nothing, he tottered back, trembling with excitement. "Yer little leddyship, there’s those little iron bars—can’t you find them? Put your hand through the ivy underneath. Ah, that’s it. Now, if you could climb up, you’re such a light, little body—I’d swing you easy enough over the balcony. That’s right. Be careful. Ah, my heart stopped beating. Now, hold on with one hand and put up the other as high as you can." He drew her up gradually; she jumped lightly over the balcony and into the room. The fire was burning brightly. She crouched before it, shivering, and warming her hands.