"If it need be at all!" Orme searched his mind again for some promise of escape from this prison which had been so suddenly glorified for them. The smooth, unbreakable walls; the thin seam of the door; the thermometer. Why had he not thought of it before? The thermometer! With an exclamation, he leaped to his feet. "What is it?" she cried. "A chance! A small chance--but still a chance!" He found his way to the handle of the door, which his first attempt at escape had taught him was not connected with the outer knob. Then he located the covering which protected the coils of the thermometer. Striking with his heel, he tried to break the metal grating. It would not yield. Again and again he threw his weight into the blows, but without effect. At last he remembered his pocket-knife. Thrusting one end of it through the grating, he prodded at the glass coils within. There was a tinkling sound. He had succeeded. He groped his way back to the girl and seated himself beside her. With the confession of their love, a new hope had sprung up in them. They might still be freed, and, though the air was becoming stifling, neither of them believed that a joy as great as theirs could be born to live but a few hours. For the hundredth time he was saying: "I can't believe that we have known each other only one day." "And even now," she mused, "you don't know my name. Do you want me to tell you?" "Not until you are ready." "Then wait. It will all come in due form. Someone will say, 'Mr. Orme, Miss----.'" "The name doesn't matter," said Orme. "To me you will always be just--Girl." The joyous moments rushed by. She had crept close to him again, and with her head on his shoulder, was saying: "There is so much for us to tell each other." "There seems to be only one thing to say now." He kissed her tenderly. "Oh, but there is much more." "Where shall we begin?" asked Orme. "Well, to be matter-of-fact, do you live in Chicago?" "No, dear. I live in New York." "I didn't even know that," she whispered, "And about me. Our family home has been in one of the suburbs here since I was a small girl. For several years I was sent East to school, and after that I went abroad with some friends. And since then----" "It can't be so very long," he whispered, "though you speak as though it were decades." "It is six years. Since then my father and I have spent our winters in the East, coming back home for the summers. Just think how much you are learning about me!" Orme lifted her hand to his lips. Suddenly the room filled with a light which to their expanded pupils seemed bright as the sun. The door had been opened and an electric light in the reception-hall shone in. Framed in the doorway was the outline of a man. Orme shouted joyfully and jumped to his feet. "Why--what----?" the man began.