He heard a window go up in the second story and a woman’s frightened voice ask. “What is it? Who is there?” “Let me in. I’m ambushed by thugs,” he called back. “There he is—in the doorway,” a voice cried out of the night, and it was followed by a spatter of bullets about him. He fired at a man leaping the fence. The fellow tumbled back with a kind of scream. “God! I’m hit.” He could hear steps coming down the stairway and fingers fumbling at the key of the door. His attackers were gathering for a rush, and he wondered whether the rescue was to be too late. They came together, the opening door and the forward pour of huddled figures. He stepped back into the hall. There was a raucous curse, a shot, and Yesler had slammed the door shut. He was alone in the darkness with his rescuer. “We must get out of here. They’re firing through the door,” he said, and “Yes” came faintly back to him from across the hall. “Do you know where the switch is?” he asked, wondering whether she was going to be such an idiot as to faint at this inopportune moment. His answer came in a flood of light, and showed him a young woman crouched on the hall-rack a dozen feet from the switch. She was very white, and there was a little stain of crimson on the white lace of her sleeve. A voice from the landing above demanded quickly, “Who are you, sir?” and after he had looked up’, cried in surprise, “Mr. Yesler.” “Miss Balfour,” he replied. “I’ll explain later. I’m afraid the lady has been hit by a bullet.” He was already beside his rescuer. She looked at him with a trace of a tired smile and said: “In my arm.” After which she fainted. He picked up the young woman, carried her to the stairs, and mounted them. “This way,” said Virginia, leading him into a bedroom, the door of which was open. He observed with surprise that she, too, was dressed in evening clothes, and rightly surmised that they had just come back from some social function. “Is it serious?” asked Virginia, when he had laid his burden on the bed. She was already clipping with a pair of scissors the sleeve from round the wound. “It ought not to be,” he said after he had examined it. “The bullet has scorched along the fleshy part of the forearm. We must telephone for a doctor at once.” She did so, then found water and cotton for bandages, and helped him make a temporary dressing. The patient recovered consciousness under the touch of the cold water, and asked: what was the matter. “You have been hurt a little, but not badly I think. Don’t you remember? You came down and opened the door to let me in.” “They were shooting at you. What for?” she wanted to know. He smiled. “Don’t worry about that. It’s all over with. I’m sorry you were hurt in saving me,” said Yesler gently. “Did I save you?” The gray eyes showed a gleam of pleasure. “You certainly did.” “This is Mr. Yesler, Laska. Mr. Yesler—Miss Lowe. I think you have never met.”