"Speak to me, my husband!" A soft, fragrant hand came gently up along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered, and pushed back the hair from his brow, which was wet. Suddenly she raised her head, gave one look at his face with large, startled eyes, then, with a shuddering gasp, she recoiled. But Buckley was not letting go. This is what he had been preparing for. Keeping one arm about her waist he threw the other around the neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary, and said in one breath, "For heaven's sake, don't scream--I can explain!" "Ugh! Oh, let go! Who--let me go or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch." But Buckley didn't let her do either. He pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four kinds of murderers as he did so. Then, as she struggled with feeble, womanly might, Buckley did the fastest thinking he had ever done in all his nineteen years. The door of the room--was it locked? The stairs--where were they? The front door--was the night-latch above the knob? Was it below? Would it stick? All this time she would be screaming, and the house was full of men. He would be caught. He was in for something. But was he hurting her? He began to talk. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully awkward. I got in here by mistake. I can explain. I'm not going to hurt you. Oh, please, keep quiet." She tried again to wrench away from his grasp, and Buckley drew her back with ease, feeling half sorry for her poor little strength. "Promise me you'll not cry out and I'll let go." "Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. "Anything. Only let me go." Buckley released his grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door. He sprang toward it to keep her from running downstairs and arousing the house. But she only snatched up an afghan or something from the sofa, and holding it about her retreated to the dark part of the room. Buckley couldn't see her now, but he heard her moan, "Oh dear, oh dear!" in a muffled tone, and he felt that she must be cowering in the corner farthest away from him, and it made him have all sorts of contempt for himself. Then he talked again, standing with his back against the door and looking toward the dark. "I don't know who you are," he began in a loud, nervous whisper, "but whoever you are, I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm. I want to talk to you." "I don't want to hear you--I don't want to hear you." "Not so loud, or we'll be heard." "Oh, oh, how can you trade upon my necessity? Haven't you a grain of manhood, a spark of kindness in you----" "Yes, yes, lots," said Buckley. "Listen to me. Please listen. It's all a big mistake. I thought I was coming to my own room----" "Your own room!"