"Miss Norman, I have come to try to interest you in the work we are doing on behalf of the suffering people of Poland. The war, as you know----" Grace reeled off this appeal, feeling quite certain that the woman would reject it at once, and thus leave her free to go. But as it turned out, Miss Norman did nothing of the sort. "I am always interested in worthy charities," she remarked, with a peculiar smile. "Won't you come in?" She held wide the door. Grace found herself in a quandary. Was this a plot to get her inside the apartment, or was the woman in earnest? It seemed unlikely, and yet, Grace feared the danger, now that she had gone so far, of arousing the other's suspicions by a refusal. "I--I will come in for a moment," she said, and an instant later found herself in a small, rather poorly furnished living room. The woman closed the door, and followed her. Grace braced herself for a possible attack, but none came. "Sit down," her hostess said, indicating a chair. "No. It is too late for that. If you care to subscribe anything----" "But you must tell me more about your work." "It is very simple. The money is expended by the Polish Relief Committee, to relieve the starving and destitute sufferers in the war zone." "I see. It seems a worthy charity. I will think the matter over. Suppose you call again." Grace began to breathe more freely. "I will do so, of course," she said, moving toward the door. The woman preceded her. "Let me open it," she said. "The catch has a habit of sticking." She fumbled with the lock. Grace was so completely deceived by the woman's actions that she momentarily relaxed her guard. As her companion drew the door open, Grace bade her good night and started to go. The instant her back was turned, she felt a slender but muscular arm slide about her neck, and she was instantly dragged backward, unable, on account of the pressure upon her throat, to utter a sound. Her attempt at a cry for help was smothered before it became audible. She saw, as in a dream, the woman before her drive the door to with her shoulder. Then she was whirled backward and thrown violently upon a low couch. She grasped the arm of her assailant and struggled with all her might, but to no purpose. The woman bent over her, her hands at her throat. Grace's brain reeled. Everything seemed black before her eyes. She gasped, trying in vain to breathe, but the fingers upon her throat were momentarily tightening. Then, almost before she realized it, the objects in the room swam vaguely before her eyes, and she lost consciousness. PART IV CHAPTER XVII Duvall, on his arrival with Mrs. Morton at her apartment, lost no time in finding out from the clerk just what had happened. The story, pieced together, confirmed his worst suspicions.