There was none to prevent the attempt, and the drop from window-sill to turf was not more than twelve feet. She risked, it was true, a sprained ankle, but she ran a chance of escaping. And even if she had to limp down to the beach, there were boats to be found there--rowboats drawn up on the sand--and there was the bare possibility that she might be able to row across the strait to the mainland before her flight was discovered. And even if overtaken, she could be no worse off than she was. Everyone believed her guilty; there was no way for her to prove her innocence. She might better chance the adventure. On frantic impulse, without giving herself time to weigh the dangers, Sally switched off her light, sat down on the window-sill, swung her legs over, and let herself down until she hung by both hands from the sill. And then she repented. She was of a sudden terribly afraid. Remembering too late the high heels of her slippers, she discounted the certainty of a turned ankle--which would hurt frightfully even if it failed to incapacitate her totally. For the life of her she could not release her grasp, though all ready the drag of her weight was beginning to cause most perceptible aches in the muscles of her arms. She panted with fright--and caught her breath on a sob to hear herself called softly from below. "Miss Manwaring! For the love of Mike--!" Trego! She looked down and confirmed recognition of his voice with the sight of his upturned face of amazement. He stood almost immediately beneath her. Heaven--or the hell that had brewed her misadventures--alone knew where he had come from so inopportunely. Still, there he was. "What are you doing? What's the matter?" he called again--and again softly, so that his voice did not carry far. She wouldn't answer. For one thing, she couldn't think what to say. The explanation was at once obvious and unspeakably foolish. Her hands were slipping. She ground her teeth and kicked convulsively, but decorously, seeking a foothold that wasn't there on the smooth face of the wall. At this his tone changed. He came more nearly under and planted himself with wide-spread feet and outstretched arms. "You can't hold on there any longer," he insisted. "Let go. Drop. I'll catch you." Only the mortification of that prospect nerved her aching fingers to retain their grip as long as they did--which, however, was not overlong. She felt herself slipping, remembered that she mustn't scream, whatever happened, experienced an instant of shuddering suspense, then an instantaneous eternity wherein, paradoxically, part of her seemed still to be clinging to the window-ledge while most of her was spinning giddily down through a bottomless pit, saw the grinning moon reel dizzily in the blue vault of heaven--and with a little shock landed squarely in the arms of Mr. Trego.