The increase of tension as heavy steps began to scroop up the stairs seemed to emanate from the figure of Jane Lauderdale. Straight and strong she stood in the center of the room, her face more marble-like than the mantel. Her head was thrown up in an attitude of alert listening. The black something in her right hand continued to command the suspect of circumstance. He, although in a somewhat easy attitude, demonstrated that he knew how to behave when “covered.” He did not so much as glance toward the window. And he showed no tendency to cough. His one deflection was a scarcely audible whisper. “If I should have to sneeze, you won’t shoot me, Jane? If you do, you’ll miss a lot of love.” At the first light rap on the door, Lauderdale’s knees seemed to weaken and he sat down upon one end of the Davenport. The younger pair stiffened; held their breath; eyed each other. A second knock sounded, then a more imperative third. An advisory discussion outside, too low-voiced for intelligibility, ended in a fourth demand for admittance, knuckled to carry to the rear of the house and waken any sleeper within. At each repetition the blind man had shuddered and gripped harder the arm of the Davenport. Now he flung out a summoning hand toward his daughter. She, with her trio of eyes on their silent guest—her own blazing blue pair and the single black one of the gun—crossed and bent to her father’s rasp: “If they should force the lock—should batter down the door——” Jane made no attempt to reassure him. At a step toward them of the stranger she retraced her steps and gestured him back with the pistol, silently but most significantly. Pape, the while, threw a trusting smile into the three eyes, then strode straight toward them. Close to Jane’s ear he whispered: “You won’t shoot me. You can’t. You’d lose too much good faith.” Despite her outraged gasp, he continued toward the door that was being importuned. Another smile he threw over-shoulder to reassure her of his confidence. And Jane didn’t shoot. Probably she couldn’t. No report shocked the air. Nothing sounded except a gruff demand from the inner side of the door. “Who’s there? Wha’d’you want?” From outside: “Old friends. We wish to see Miss Lauderdale.” “_Who_?” “Lauderdale—Miss Lau-der-dale.” “Who in holy Hemlock directed you here, then? My name ain’t Lauderdale. Never will be. Stop the noise, will you?” There ensued further low-voiced consultation without. A moment later footsteps began a descent of the stairs. Scroop ... screak ... screech. Not until the musical siren announced the departure from the block of the would-be visitors, did Pape relax from his listening attitude at the door. On turning he saw that Jane, too, had slumped, limp and white, into a chair, the very black and ominous something with which she had threatened him dropped into her lap. A look half-dazed, yet wholly hopeful was on her face. “Thank Heaven—thank you, Peter Pape—they’ve gone!”