“No. I feel now that I daren’t leave the flat in case she should come back—perhaps with that beast after her—poor little soul. Oh, John, I sometimes think it was all my fault. I should not have left her alone that night—” “Nonsense! If it comes to that, I am to blame, for I might have foreseen. . . . But you’ll soon have her with you again, Hilda!” “Have you news?” she cried eagerly. He gave her West’s letter, saying: “You can look at it afterwards. No; I can’t say I have news, but in a few hours I shall be ready to act. That wretched Corrie shall tell me where his niece and Hayward are.” “Are you sure?” All at once she put her hands on his shoulders, and looked searchingly into his face. “Oh, John,” she whispered, “you can’t hide it—you’re afraid of something!” “Yes,” he said at last with sudden weariness, “I’m afraid.” Next moment he drew himself up. “But that’s because, like you, I’m tired out. A few hours’ sleep will make all the difference to both of us. Won’t you come back with me and stay the night? I hate leaving you here.” She shook her head. “I imagine if she came in the middle of the night—” “Try not to imagine things, my dear. And I’ll just spend the night here. This couch will do. Ask your maid to knock me up at seven. And go straight off to bed yourself. How’s that?” “Oh, you good brother!” she cried softly. “I was wondering how I was going to get through another night alone!” Soon she retired, a little more hopeful, and ere long was in a sleep of sheer exhaustion. But for Risk, wearied as he was, there was scarcely any rest. He was desperately anxious. He could not conceive of Symington daring actually to injure the girl; but what if the man struck at her through his other victim? Risk groaned at the thought. He went to the window, and threw it wide to the still, mild night. Ah, it was no longer a game he was engaged in, but a business most terribly serious, vital to the future peace of his soul. For he loved—no need to deny it to the stars—he loved Kitty Carstairs . . . and a lover’s insight had informed him that, sooner or later, her heart would turn to Colin Hayward, who had put faith and trust in him, who regarded him as benefactor, aye, and true friend. So he had his honour as well as his love to serve in smashing the enemy. Yet, had Colin not come to London, what might not have happened? . . . At last he tore himself from the night and his sorry dreams, and lay down, not to sleep, but grimly to rehearse, in minutest detail, all that he had planned for the morrow. And every now and then he was interrupted by a Dread. * * * * *