The hour was the veribest of the whole twenty-four group, he reminded her. Wouldn’t she enjoy it? Evening was lowering shadows into the park. Didn’t she feel sifting into the roofless block-house the atmosphere of rest-time and peace? Outside the trees were full of birds, as busy about going to bed as the families of any flat-house in the city. Couldn’t she imagine with him that the dulled clatter rising from the streets was the rush of some great waterfall of the wild or of winds through a forest or of hoofed herds pounding over a distant plain? Soothing was Pape’s illusion that he was back in his limitless West, but rudely was it broken. Slowly, soundlessly he got to his feet; approached the sheet-iron door; with every sense alert, listened. A sharp knock had sounded from without. No illusion was this. Jane, too, had heard. She had straightened against the stone wall, in her wide eyes and tightened lips the reflex of his thought. Peace, safety, rest-time? Evidently, not for them! Had some member of The Finest outwitted them? Was the block-house to prove, not a refuge, but a trap? CHAPTER XXVI—HOUSE OF BLOCKS For a moment silence tortured. Then sounded an imperative tapping against the locked door. Pape, standing within arm-reach of the handle, felt something hard and cold slipped into his grasp; realized that Jane had re-armed him; appreciated her mute suggestion that it would be better, were they known to be blocked within, to take his chance of overcoming a single enemy than to wait until reënforcements arrived. A second he considered the automatic, before placing it in his pocket ready for emergency in case his arms and fists could not decide the issue. To throw open the door and drag inside the disturber would be the best beginning to fight’s finish. He waved the girl toward the far wall; soundlessly turned the latch; flung back with a jerk to admit—— Their pursuer was official, yes, although not so much so as they had feared. With a bound he entered just below Pape’s ready fists—and on four feet instead of two. “Kicko—you scoundrel!”—Pape, sternly. “Precious pup!”—Jane, caressingly, from the floor seat into which she had collapsed from very weakness of her relief. Pape mounted the wobbly doorstep and peered outside. No accompanying officers loomed through the fast-falling shadows. Either the dog had outsped them or had deserted them temporarily for some reason canine and less comprehensible. On relatching the door and facing about, he saw that reason. The Belgian, his tail waving like a feather fan, trotted toward the girl, swinging from his mouth a shiny object which explained why he had bumped against and scratched at the door, instead of barking for admittance. In Jane’s lap he deposited the tin lunch pail, to carry which to his master at noon-time was his dearest duty and privilege.