If only she could get word to some one outside! If only some one could learn of her plight, she might be saved--might save the world! Such was the thought that kept pounding at Eleanor's brain as she sat stooped in her prison room, her head buried in her hands, while through the closed door came the buzzing and droning of motors. Then by degrees an idea thrust itself upon her. As she moped alone in her dismal monotony, she had heard every evening the shuffling of some one ascending the steps just beyond the barred apartment door. The sound always came at the same time--at five minutes before six--and she could recognize the peculiar dreary noise as it approached. Might not the passer-by, whoever he was, become her deliverer? At first she thought of calling out to him; but realized that, even if he took heed, this would merely be to warn Dunbar, who would find ways to balk her plan. No! she must communicate without being heard. But how? As if anticipating this very possibility, Dunbar had denied her all writing materials. She considered, indeed, the ancient device of a message written in her own blood, which she might scrawl on a fly-leaf torn from a book; but she feared that some chance blood-stain would furnish her captor with a fatal clue. The thought of the books, however, gave her another idea. Leaping up with sudden alacrity, she went to the case Dunbar had mentioned, and eagerly selected a volume. Passing through the room half an hour later, her oppressor paused with a grim smile to see her bent above "The Greycourt Murder Mystery." "Ah!" he exclaimed, as he leaned over her shoulder for a glance at the title. "Didn't know you went in for that sort of stuff. Good idea, though. Takes your mind off your troubles. Literature of escape, they call it." He did not notice the ironic glint in her eyes, nor the faint quivering of her voice as she replied, "Yes, that's it--literature of escape." Had his mind not been preoccupied, he would have seen how her hands fluttered, and how tremulously she averted his gaze. "Oh, by the way, might just as well tell you," he confided. "I've been making fine progress. In another five days, if all goes well, I'll be able to set you free." "Free?" she gasped, unbelievingly. "Yes, I'll be done with my job by then--have all the compressed air tanks ready, in just another five days." She started up as if she had been struck, allowing the book to slip to the floor unnoticed. "Five days?" she repeated, blankly, realizing how little time remained for her to work in. "Five days!" "God! but I'm getting fed up, slaving in this damnable heat!" he muttered; and then, passing out of the room, threw out at her, with a burst of sardonic laughter, "Now, my girl, better get back to your--your literature of escape!"