Her arm about his neck was pressing closer. It was the moment for action and Ryder acted. Very firmly he put his hand upon her hand, withdrew it from its clasp about him, and raised it to his lips. His kiss was respectful gratitude and an abdication of the delights of dalliance. "Good-bye, my dear," he murmured. "Now, if you will show me the way out--" Her eyes agleam between half-closed lids, she studied him. It occurred to Ryder that probably never before had her hands been detached--and kissed--and put away. He must be a phenomenon, an enigma. Then her lips parted in a faintly scornful smile. "You afraid--you? You want--run?" "I'm horribly afraid," he said earnestly. "I want to get out of here as quick as I can." That was putting, he considered, the very wisest construction upon it. Negligently her gesture reminded him of the opening in the window. "Here you are safe." she murmured in the vernacular. "And the doors are locked--" "Yes, but--but Aimée isn't safe, you know--and I must get her out of here." "Aimée?" In those yellow eyes he caught the flash of capricious resentment at the reminder. Then, indifferently, she brushed the distraction away. "There is time enough for Aimée. She is not lonely now." "Not lonely?" he shivered at the cold carelessness of her tone. "I must get to her quickly then." "But that is not safe.... A little--later." Uncomfortably he tried to infuse his glance with innate innocence and utter lack of understanding. "I shan't hurt him--if I have the chance," he told her. "I've given you my word--" "And I trust you--much." Her gaze sought his in a trifle of impatience at such simplicity. "But it is not safe for you now.... Later ... By and by." "You don't want him to have a chance to make love to her, do you?" said Ryder sharply. "I thought that was the very thing you _didn't_--" Her smile was a subtle, confessing caress. "I shall have my revenge," she murmured, and pressed closer to him again, every sensuous, sumptuous line of her a challenge and an enticement. "I give you life," she whispered, very low in her throat. "You give me, perhaps, an hour--?" "I _haven't_ an hour," said Ryder very desperately and unhappily. "Not when Aimée is with that devil--" It took every thought of Aimée to get the words out. He felt a brute about it, a low, ungrateful dog. She _had_ given him life and every fiber in him clamored to save her pride and champion her caprice. It seemed so dastardly to wrench away from her now, like some self-centered Joseph, leaving that beastly stab in her vanity.... And she was a stunning creature, lawless, elemental, hot and cold like the seventh wind of the inferno.... But it was Aimée who was in his blood like a fever.... Aimée, that frail white rose of a girl, in her bonds of terror....