I heard it bellowed in a dozen different voices, and every now and then I could hear Moriway as I pelted on--that brassy, cruel bellow of his that made my heart sick. And then all at once I heard a policeman's whistle. That whistle was like a signal--I saw the gates of the Correction open before me. I saw your Nance, Tom, in a neat striped dress, and she was behind bars--bars--bars! There were bars everywhere before me. In fact, I felt them against my very hands, for in my mad race I had shot up a blind alley--a street that ended in a garden behind an iron fence. I grabbed the diamonds to throw them from me, but I couldn't--I just couldn't! I jumped the fence where the gate was low, and with that whistle flying shrill and shriller after me I ran to the house. I might have jumped from the frying-pan? Of course, I might. But it was all fire to me. To be caught at the end is at least no worse than to be caught at the beginning. Anyhow, it was my one chance, and I took it as unhesitatingly as a rat takes a leap into a trap to escape a terrier. Only--only, it was my luck that the trap wasn't set! The room was empty. I pushed open a glass door, and fell over an open trunk that stood beside it. It bruised my knee and tore my hand, but oh!--it was nuts to me. For it was a woman's trunk filled with women's things. A skirt! A blessed skirt! And not a striped one. I threw off the bell-boy's jacket and I got into that dear dress so quick it made my head swim. The jacket was a bit tight but I didn't button it, and I'd just got a stiff little hat perched on my head when I heard the tramp of men on the sidewalk, and in the dusk saw the cop's buttons at the gate. Caught? Not much. Not yet. I threw open the glass doors and walked out into the garden. "Miss--Omar--I wonder if it would be Miss Omar?" You bet I didn't take time to see who it was talking before I answered. Of course I was Miss Omar. I was Miss Anybody that had a right to wear skirts and be inside those blessed gates. "Ah--h! I fancied you might be. I've been expecting you." It was a lazy, low voice with a laugh in it, and it came from a wheeled chair, where a young man lay. Sallow he was and slim and long, and helpless--you could see that by his white hanging hands. But his voice--it was what a woman's voice would be if she were a man. It made you perk up and pretend to be somewhere near its level. It fitted his soft, black clothes and his fine, clean face. It meant silks and velvets and-- Oh, all right, Tommy Dorgan, if you're going to get jealous of a voice! "Excuse me, Mr. Latimer." The cop came in as he spoke, Moriway following; the rest of the hounds hung about. "There's a thieving bell-boy from the hotel that's somewhere in your grounds. Can I come in and get him?" "In here, Sergeant? Aren't you mistaken?" "No; Mr. Moriway here saw him jump the gate not five minutes since."