The watchman bent and peered into the white face. “It’s Wilkins, all right,” he commented. “He didn’t get far with that eighteen hundred of yours. Somebody must have been laying for him. They’ve turned his pockets inside out, and I guess they got it, all right.” Deftly he ran his hand over the body. “Nothin’ doing,” he reported. “They’ve skinned him clean. Here, Mr. Caruth! The cops’ll be here in a minute. I wish you’d chase down and put ’em wise.” Caruth obeyed as he would have obeyed any behest of the stronger will. The situation had dazed him. An immense relief mingled with an immense terror; relief that his worst fears had not been realized; terror lest something even worse had happened in its stead. Wilkins was dead; presumably the woman still lived. But whose hand had struck the blow? A swish of silk sounded in his ears, and he looked up. She was there before him, peering downward with curious, frightened eyes. “Mr. Caruth,” she called, in hushed tones. “Mr. Caruth! Has anything happened?” “Yes!” Relief was in his voice. Her bearing was not that of a murderess. “What is it?” “I have no time to tell you. You must go. The police are coming, and you must not be seen. Hurry!” The unsolved mystery of the girl’s visit had grown blacker than ever, but Caruth did not hesitate. He knew that it was his duty to detain her till the fire-escape had given up its secret, but not for a moment did he pause. He refused to think of what it all meant. He only knew that he was on her side, heart and soul, and would do her bidding till he died. “Hurry,” he repeated. “There isn’t a moment to lose.” But the girl held back. “The letter,” she pleaded. “I cannot go without it.” “You must. I didn’t want to tell you, but--Wilkins has been murdered, and the police are coming. The letter is out of reach, for the moment anyhow. You must go at once. The police will be here in a moment.” He hurried her to the door and peered out. Bare and silent in the first break of dawn, the street stretched interminably away. No human being seemed to stir. But as he listened a far-away rumble grew on his ears. “The patrol wagon!” he gasped. “This way! Quick! God help you!” In an instant she was gone, hurrying swiftly down the street, with steps that did not falter. Caruth watched till he saw a man’s figure step from the shadows to join her, and the two vanish around a corner. Then, sick at heart, as only the young can be when they find their heart’s idol clay, he turned back to greet the police. They were at his elbow--six of them--leaping from a wagon and hurrying forward. “What’s doing?” demanded the foremost. “Murder! On the third-floor fire-escape. The watchman is there.” The officer spun round. “On your way, boys!” he ordered. “Front and back!” He turned to Caruth. “Who did it?” he demanded.