"And in the meantime the situation is getting more and more desperate. You know why. Now listen. We can clean up on that little business deal in three days. Do you know what that means? Maybe a hundred thousand dollars. We'll let you in. Your share would be twelve thousand five hundred. Don't that sound pretty good to you? You can avoid any trouble by going away with us. Or you can go alone and nobody will bother you. We'll give you the dope on that; for believe me, we know how. And you wouldn't have to do a thing you don't want to do. We've got grandpa tamed now in regard to you. We've told him that you're a lady, and won't stand for that rough stuff. He's wild about you, and crazy to see you, and make it all right again. Now why not use a little sense? Slip a note under my door across the way and tell me that you'll doll yourself up and be ready to go to dinner with him tonight at seven." A postscript added: "This is unsigned and typewritten on your own typewriter and so couldn't be used by anyone who didn't like our way of doing business. For your own safety though, I advise you to burn it." This last was the one bit of advice in the letter which Susannah followed. She lighted a match and burned it over her water basin. Then she forced her protesting throat to swallow a glass of milk. She ate some crackers. After that she went to bed. What to do and where to go! Over and over again, she turned the meager possibilities of her situation. Nothing offered escape. A hackneyed phrase floated into her mind--"woman's wit." From time immemorial it had been a bromidiom that any woman, however stupid, could outwit any man, however clever. Was it true? Perhaps not all the time, and perhaps sometimes. That was the only way though--she must pit her nimble, inexperienced woman's wit against their heavier but trained man's wit. Her problem was to get out of this house, unseen. But how? All kinds of fantastic schemes floated through her tired mind. If she could only disguise herself-- But she would have to go out first to get the disguise. And Byan was across the hall, waiting for just that move. If there were only a convenient fire-escape! But of course he would anticipate that. If she could only summon a taxi, leap into it and drive for an hour! But she would have to telephone for the taxi in the outside hall, where Byan could hear her. On and on, she drove her tired mind; inventing schemes more and more impracticable. For a long time, that woman's wit spawned nothing--