She began to creep away from the window, and she felt her legs, all at once, shaking under her. By the time she reached the Chesterfield sofa she fell down by it and began to cry. A sort of hysteria seized her, and she shook from head to foot and clutched at the upholstery with weak hands which clawed. She was, indeed, an awful, piteous sight. He was perhaps not lying, but she was afraid of him yet. “I told the men who are waiting outside that if I did not bring you out in half an hour, they were to break into the house. I do not wish them to break in. We have not any time to spare. What you are doing is quite natural, but you must try to get up.” He stood by her and said this looking down at her slender, wrung body and lovely groveling head. He took a flask out of his overcoat pocket—and it was a gem of goldsmith’s art. He poured some wine into its cup and bent forward to hold it out to her. “Drink this and try to stand on your feet,” he said. He knew better than to try to help her to rise—to touch her in any way. Seeing to what the past hours had reduced her, he knew better. There was mad fear in her eyes when she lifted her head and threw out her hand again. “No! No!” she cried out. “No, I will drink nothing!” He understood at once and threw the wine into the grate. “I see,” he said. “You might think it might be drugged. You are right. It might be. I ought to have thought of that.” He returned the flask to his pocket. “Listen again. You must. The time will soon be up and we must not let those fellows break in and make a row that will collect a crowd We must go at once. Mademoiselle Vallé is waiting for you in my carriage outside. You will not be afraid to drink wine she gives you.” “Mademoiselle!” she stammered. “Yes. In my carriage, which is not fifty yards from the house. Can you stand on your feet?” She got up and stood but she was still shuddering all over. “Can you walk downstairs? If you cannot, will you let me carry you? I am strong enough—in spite of my years.” “I can walk,” she whispered. “Will you take my arm?” She looked at him for a moment with awful, broken-spirited eyes. “Yes. I will take your arm.” He offered it to her with rigid punctiliousness of manner. He did not even look at her. He led her out of the room and down the three flights of stairs. As they passed by the open drawing-room door, the lovely woman who had called herself Lady Etynge stood near it and watched them with eyes no longer gentle. “I have something to say to you, Madam,” he said; “When I place this young lady in the hands of her governess, I will come back and say it.” “Is her governess Fräulein Hirsch?” asked the woman lightly. “No. She is doubtless on her way back to Berlin—and von Hillern will follow her.”