They held their breath. Back in the parlor the gilt clock ticked like a midsummer mad insect; the cries of newsboys rose muffled from the street; even a drip of water sounded from some leaky kitchen tap; but from the bedroom came nothing. Jean tried the knob. "Locked!" The dentist laid his shoulder to the woodwork, put forth his strength, and the door burst in with an impetus that carried him headlong; but before either could follow he had recovered himself and turned to block the way. "Keep back, Jean," he commanded sharply. "Keep back!" Their suspense was brief. Almost immediately he came out, closed the door gently after him, and held up a red-labeled vial. "Carbolic acid!" he said hoarsely. Jean uttered a sharp cry. "A doctor!" she exclaimed. Paul shook his head. "I am doctor enough to know death. Atwood, get your wife away." "But now--" Jean resisted. "Go, go!" he commanded, driving them before him. "Mrs. St. Aubyn will do what a woman can. I will attend to the police. You left for rest, believing her asleep. I suspected suicide, and broke down the door. That's our story. Go while you can." They went out as in a dream, striking away at random when they issued on the street, seeking only to shun the still idling curious, grateful beyond words for release, avid for the pure, vital air. Presently, in some quarter, they knew not where, a cab-driver hailed them, and they passively entered his hansom and as passively sat dependent on his superior will. "Where to?" asked the man, impatiently. Atwood shook himself awake. "The Copley Studios," he answered. "Do you know the building? It's near--" The closing trap clipped his directions, and they drove away. They gave no heed to their course till, passing a park entrance, they came full upon a knot of urchins and nursemaids clustered between lake and drive. "That's where the Chapman murder took place," volunteered the driver. Jean shut her eyes. "This way of all ways!" "It is behind us now," Craig comforted. "It's _all_ behind us now." Neither spoke again till they reached the studio, and a porter announced the arrival of several trunks. "They're yours, Jean," Atwood said. "I ordered them sent here when Julie telephoned for instructions. I realize that there is no going back. She admits that she did you a wrong--she will tell you so herself; but that doesn't alter matters. We must live our own lives. To-night we'll go away for a time. In the mountains or by the sea, whichever you will, we'll plan for the future. It's time the air-castles were made real." He ordered a luncheon from a neighboring restaurant, forced her to eat, and then to rest. She said that sleep was impossible, and that she must repack against their journey; but her eyelids grew heavy even while she protested, and she was just drowsily aware that he threw over her some studio drapery which emitted a spicy oriental scent.