The clock struck nine. All that was respectable and innocent in St. Ange was in bed at that hour. Gaston wondered what he was going to do with the girl. The thought did not disturb him; but, of course, he must make arrangements. Long ago he had so shut out his own world that he could not, now, call upon it for Joyce's protection. St. Ange was impossible as a working basis--his thoughts flew to Filmer. Yes; as soon as Joyce could explain, he would go for Filmer and together they would solve this riddle for the poor, battered soul, shrinking before him. He must hurry her a little. St. Ange and nine o'clock must be considered. The wine had brought life and colour into the white face. The glorious hair, now rapidly drying in the warm room, was curling in childish fashion above the wide eyes. She was certainly too young and pretty to run the risk that the night might bring. A complication arose. Divine pity made way for a sense of the girl's beauty and helplessness. The bruise upon the soft cheek cried out for tenderness and protection. Gaston strove to detach himself from the personal element. He strove to feel old and fatherly but he was still young; Fate was tempting him in the subtlest manner. The best and the worst of the man came to the fore. The wind howled outside; the warmth and comfort held them close--together, and alone. What did anything matter? They had both done their parts. They had tried to be what the world called good--and here they were tossed back upon each other, and not a hope beyond. Then Gaston found himself speaking quite outside of the consciousness that was almost stifling him with its allurement. "Joyce, I must take you home as soon as you can walk. I can straighten this out. It shall not happen again. You forget I have a certain hold over Jude." "There is no home." The words fell dully from the girl. "He--he broke and destroyed everything before--he went to the Black Cat." Gaston started. "But he--did not know you came here? You see it will be in your favour, if they find you there among the ruins. I'll see to it--that they go and find you there. Can you walk now?" "Yes, but--but you do not understand. The money--it was that I came to tell you about--Jude has a great deal of money--I think Mr. Drew has just sent it. He's going to--get away--with my--father." Gaston now saw that no time must be wasted. If necessary he must carry Joyce, and set her down near her fallen shrine--then he must stop Jude. The money did not matter; but a frenzy of self-preservation, mingled with his desire to save Joyce, rose within him. The money was his hold on Jude; it was the only salvation for this critical moment. Now that he faced the grim possibility, he found that he was as eager to preserve a clean future for himself as for her. He must get her back. He must find Filmer, and he must lay hold of Jude. "Come, Joyce, trust me, I swear to you that it will be all right."