"Now you go along quietly," said the detective. "We've had our eyes on you. We know all about you. And when the hotel gets wise to a guy like you we tip him off and he beats it!" "We can discuss that to-morrow; I tell you I have an appointment----" "G'wan out o' here!" growled the detective. The young man quietly fell into step beside him, but on the sidewalk he turned on him, white and desperate. "I tell you I've _got_ to keep that appointment." He stood aside as the girl passed him, head lowered, and halted to wait for her cab. "I tell you I've got to go back----" "Here, you!" The detective seized his arm as he attempted to pass; the young man wheeled and flung him aside, and the next instant reeled back as the detective struck him again with his billy, knocking him halfway into the street. "You damned dead-beat!" he panted, "I'll show you!" The young man stood swaying, his hands against his head; porters, cabmen, and the detective saw him stagger and fall heavily. And the next moment the girl was kneeling beside him. "Let him alone, lady," said somebody. "That bum isn't hurt." The "bum," in fact, was getting to his feet, groping for some support; and the girl's arm was offered and he leaned on it a moment, clearing his eyes with a gloved hand. Suddenly he made a movement so quick that she never understood how she wrenched the short, dull-blue weapon from his hand. "Pick up your hat!" she gasped. "Do what I tell you!" He looked at her, dazed, then the blood blotted his dark eyes again. She stooped swiftly, caught up his hat, and, holding tightly to his arm, opened the other door of the taxicab. "They'll kill you here," she whispered. "Come with me. I've got to talk to you!" "Lady--are you crazy?" demanded the tall head-porter, aghast. But she had got him into the cab. "Drive on," she said through clenched teeth. And the chauffeur laughed and started east. In the swaying cab the man beside her sat bent over, his face in his hands, blood striping the fingers of his gloves. With a shudder she placed the automatic weapon on the cushion beside her and shrank back, staring at him. But his senses seemed to be returning, for presently he sat up, found his handkerchief, staunched the rather insignificant abrasion, and settled back into his corner. Without looking at her he said: "Would you mind if I thank you? You have been very kind." She could not utter a word. Presently he turned; and as he looked at her for the first time a faint flicker of humour seemed to touch his eyes. "Where are we going--if you don't mind?" he said pleasantly. Then the breathless words came, haltingly. "I've got to tell you something; I've _got_ to! I can't stand aside--I _can't_ pass by on the other side!" "Thank you," he said, smiling, "but Lazarus is all right now." "I mean--something else!" Her voice fell to a whisper. "I _must_ speak!" He looked pleasantly perplexed, smiling.