Twilight waned; night fell; hours passed. Motionless and imperturbable, Joan waited on, the tensity of her mood betrayed only by the burning of her baleful, dangerous eyes. At half-past nine a noise of scuffling feet, gruff voices and heavy breathing in the hallway, following the clash of an elevator gate, brought her to her feet. Going to the bureau, she opened a drawer and put the revolver away. There would be no need of that, now. Answering a knock, she threw the door wide. Two porters staggered in, one with the shoulders, one with the feet of Quard. The bell-boy followed. When they had lugged to the bed that inert and insensate thing she had once loved, Joan tipped the men and they departed. The boy lingered. "Is there anything more I can do, ma'm?" "Where did you find him?" "Down on the Coast. I don't know what wouldn't've happened to him if you hadn't sent me after him. He was up an alley--had been stuck up by a couple of strong-arms. I seen 'em making their get-away just as I come in sight." She uttered a cry of despair: "Robbed--you mean?" "Yes, ma'm. He ain't got as much's a nickel on him." Overwhelmed, Joan sank into a chair. The boy avoided her desolate eyes; he was a little afraid she might want part of the five dollars back. "Hadn't I better send the hotel doctor up, ma'm?" "Perhaps," she muttered dully. "Yes, ma'm. And here's the check for your suit-case. Nothing else? Good night, ma'm." The door closed. Of a sudden, Joan jumped up and ran to the bed in the alcove. Quard's condition was pitiable, but in her excited no compassion. His face was pallid as a death-mask save on one cheek-bone, where there was an angry and livid contusion. His hands were scratched, bleeding, and filthy, his clothing begrimed and torn, his pockets turned inside out. He seemed scarcely to breathe, and a thin froth flecked his slack and swollen lips. With feverish haste she unbuttoned his shirt and trousers and tugged at his undershirt. Then she sobbed aloud, a short, dry sob of relief. She had discovered the money-belt. In another minute she had unbuckled and withdrawn it from his body. She took it to the other room, to the light, and hastily undid its fastenings. There were perhaps two dozen fresh, new bills, for the most part of large denominations, folded once lengthwise to fit into the narrow silken tube; but someone knocked before she found time to reckon up their sum. Hastily cramming the money, together with the tell-tale belt, into her handbag, Joan took a deep breath and said "Come in!" There entered a grave man of middle-age, carrying a physician's satchel. He said, with a slight inclination of his head: "Mrs. Quard, I believe?" "Yes," Joan gasped. She nodded toward the alcove: "Your patient's in there." He murmured some acknowledgment, turning away to the bedside. For several minutes he worked steadily over the drunkard. While she waited, her wits awhirl, Joan mechanically pinned on her hat.