"Now, Eric," she broke in firmly, "I sha'n't let you give yourself up. You owe something to me. I love you with all my soul. If they were to take you back to London and--and put you in prison,--I'd--I'd die. I could not endure--" She suddenly broke down and, burying her face on his shoulder, sobbed chokingly. He was deeply distressed. "Oh, I say, dearest, don't--don't go under like this. I--I can't stand it. Don't cry, darling. It breaks my heart to see you--" "I--I can't help it," she sobbed. "Give--give me a little--time. I'll be all right in a--minute." He whispered consolingly: "That's right. Take your time, dear. I never dreamed you cared so much." She looked up quickly, her eyes flashing through the tears. "And do you care less for me, now that you see what a weak, silly--" "Good Lord, no! I adore you more than ever. I-- Who's there?" M. Mirabeau, coughing considerately, was rattling the latch of the door that separated the shop from the store-room beyond. A moment later he opened the door slowly and stuck his head through the aperture. Then, satisfied that his warning cough had been properly received, he entered the shop. The lovers were sitting bolt upright and some distance apart. Lady Jane was arranging a hat that had been somehow forgotten up to that instant. "A thousand pardons," said the old Frenchman, his voice lowered. "We must act at once. Follow me,--quickly, but as quietly as possible. He is downstairs. I have listened from the top of the steps. Poor old Bramble is doing his best to divert him. I have just this instant heard the villain announce that his watch needs looking into, and from that I draw a conclusion. He will come to my shop in spite of all that Bramble can do. Come! I know the way to safety." "But I'm not going to hide," began Trotter. Jane seized his arm and dragged him toward the door. "Yes, you are," she whispered fiercely. "You belong to me, Eric Temple. I shall do what I like with you. Don't be mulish, dear. I sha'n't leave you,--not for anything in the world." "Bravo!" whispered M. Mirabeau. Swiftly they stole through the door and past the landing. Scraps of conversation from below reached their ears. Jane's clutch tightened on her lover's arm. She recognized the voice of Mr. Alfred Chambers. "De Bosky will do the rest," whispered the clockmaker, as they were joined by the musician at the far end of the stock-room. "I must return to the shop. He will suspect at once if I am not at work when he appears,--for appear he will, you may be sure." He was gone in a second. De Bosky led them into the adjoining room and pointed to a tall step-ladder over in the corner. A trap-door in the ceiling was open, and blackness loomed beyond.