"I wouldn't marry her if she were the last woman in the world," he cried. "Listen to me! Haven't you two women husbands who are dear to you? Haven't you husbands--" "They're both in the penitentiary, curse 'em," snarled Brown, clenching and unclenching her hands. "I wish I could get my hooks on that man of mine, that's all." "Lucky dog!" said Reynolds. "You bet he's a lucky dog. I believe he got sent up deliberately." "Well, he's only got eight more years to serve, Brown," said Quinlan. "He'll come back to you for food and clothes. Then you can make up for this lost time." "I'll do it, all right," said Brown, smiting the window sill with her huge fist. Quinlan chuckled. That night Reynolds made his last stand. When Miss Crouch left him, he was almost ready to submit. Had she but known it, another five minutes of argument would have brought him to terms. Starvation had conquered him. "If I live till morning," he kept repeating to himself in the solitude of his cell, "I'll give in. I can't stand it any longer. I shall go mad." He fell back on the bed and lay staring at the ceiling, a beaten wreck. Delirium was at hand. Sometime during the night he was aroused from a fitful slumber by a sound at his window. The night was very dark. He could see nothing, and yet he knew that some one was there--some one who would help him in his final hour of despair. Struggling weakly from the bed, he dragged himself to the bars. Beaching between them, his hand encountered the topmost rung of a ladder. Some one was ascending from below. He could feel the supports quiver, he could hear the ladder creak beneath the weight of a living, moving body. A moment later, the dull outlines of a head and shoulders appeared in the black frame--the head of a woman! With a groan of despair he shrank back, thinking that the visitor was one who had come to torment him in some new fashion. "Cuthbert!" whispered the woman on the outside. "Cuthbert, dear, are you there? Speak!" He staggered to the window once more. Hope buoyed him up. The voice was not that of one of his inquisitors. It was low, sweet, gentle, yet quivering with anxiety. "Yes, yes!" he whispered. "Who are you? For God's sake, get me out of this place. I am dying here." "Thank God, you are alive," came the tense whisper from the woman. "I am not too late." "Who are you?" He had discovered that her features were rendered unrecognisable by an ugly pair of motor goggles. A thick veil held her panama motor hat in place. She laughed nervously, even shyly. "Never mind, Mr. Reynolds," she said. "Enough to say that I am here to release you if it is in the power of woman to do so." "You call me Mr. Reynolds now," he protested. "A moment ago it was 'Cuthbert dear.' Who are you, oh, my deliverer?" "Don't ask, please. Not now. You shall know in good time. How long have you been here?" "Ages, it seems. In truth, but five days. She is starving me to death." "The fiend! Tell me, are you married to her?" "No!"