Henry Wolverton stiffened and a cold thrill of apprehension ran down his spine. The scream was succeeded by a faint, eager patter of hurrying feet; and then more distantly, by the brutal intrusion of hoarse shouts, and the clutter of heavy boots vehemently running. Wolverton did not move. Until now fear had never entered his life and he had the courage of a man who has never faced a real danger. The lighter footsteps were approaching very rapidly, coming up Bloomsbury Street; and the sound of them seemed suddenly to lift and acquire precision as a figure came round the corner and turned swiftly into the Square. Wolverton could see then that the runner was a young woman in a light dress. He would have let her pass without trying to attract her attention. He was watching the whole incident with the detached and careful interest of the historian. But the young woman, herself, had evidently seen the beacon of his open door before she actually reached it, and had settled upon her course of action. She came straight up the steps without an instant’s hesitation, pushed Henry Wolverton back into the hall, and closed the door with the intent and silent urgency of a conspirator. He made no attempt to speak, and the young woman crouched in silence behind the door, until they had heard the clutter of heavy footsteps pass by and hurry on, up the Square. The men were not shouting now, but even through the heavy door, Wolverton could hear them gasping and panting as they ran. The sound of it made him think of the hoarse panting of great dogs. When the flurry of that passing had dwindled again into silence, the young woman got up, locked and bolted the door and faced Henry Wolverton under the light of the hall lamp. “So, that’s all right,” she said, with a little laugh of exultation. “Do I understand--?” Wolverton began. “Probably, I should imagine,” she interrupted him. “The scum’s let loose--the hooligans; the Apaches. After the fighting comes pillage and rapine.” She frowned slightly as she added, “I suppose rapine has got to do with rape?” “It is not used specifically in that sense, now,” Wolverton replied. “But it had that meaning, earlier.” “Oh, thanks! Well that was what I meant,” the young woman said. “Do you mind if I come in and sit down? Is that your room? I’m a bit blown.” Wolverton stood aside for her to enter the sacred places of his writing-room. She nodded by way of thanks, as she passed him, went in, looked round the room and then having thrown herself with a sigh of relief into his reading chair, proceeded to take off her hat. “Jolly room,” she remarked pleasantly, as her deft fingers twitched and patted at her hair. “You a writer?” “My name is Henry Wolverton,” he informed her with a modest dignity. “What?” she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and staring at him eagerly. “Henry Wolverton, the historian?” He nodded gravely.