Funny, how some things strike you! This was Latimer's rug. I had noticed it that evening--a warm, soft, mottled green that looked like silk and fur mixed. I could see the way his long, white hands looked on it, and as I touched it I could hear his voice-- Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take! Ever hear a man like that say a thing like that? No? Well, it's--it's different. It's as if the river had spoken--or a tree--it's so--it's so different. That saved me--that verse that I remembered. I said it over and over and over again to myself. I fitted it to the ferry whistles on the bay--to the cop's steps as they passed again--to the roar of the L-train and the jangling of the surface cars. And right in the middle of it--every drop of blood in my body seemed to leak out of me, and then come rushing back to my head--I heard Tom's whistle. Oh, it's easy to say "run," and I really meant it when I promised Tom. But you see I hadn't heard that whistle then. When it came, it changed everything. It set the devil in me loose. I felt as if the world was tearing something of mine away from me. Stand for it? Not Nance Olden. I did run--but it was toward the house. That whistle may have meant "Go!" To me it yelled "Come!" I got in through the window Tom had left open. The place was still quiet. Nobody inside had heard that whistle so far as I could tell. I crept along--the carpets were thick and soft and silky as the rug I'd had my hands buried in to keep 'em warm. Along a long hall and through a great room, whose walls were thick with books, I was making for a light I could see at the back of the house. That's where Tom Dorgan must be and where I must be to find out--to know. With my hands out in front of me I hurried, but softly, and just as I had reached the portieres below which the light streamed, my arms closed about a thing--cold as marble, naked--I thought it was a dead body upright there, and with a cry, I pitched forward through the curtains into the lighted room. "Nance!--you devil!" You recognize it? Yep, it was Tom. Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of Latimer's bed, his hands above his head, and Latimer's gun aimed right at his heart. Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you? His eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed themselves again on Tom. But his voice went straight at me, all right. "You are something of a thankless devil, I must admit, Miss--Omar," he said. I didn't say anything. You don't say things in answer to things like that. You feel 'em. Ashamed? What do I care for a man with a voice like that! ... But you should have heard how Tom's growl sounded after it. "Why the hell didn't you light out?" "I couldn't, Tom. I just--couldn't," I sobbed.