Rodman's search became feverish. There was little time to lose. The conference might be brief--and, after that, chaos! But fortune favored him. Chance led him into the right street, and he found the body. Being alone, he stood for a moment indecisive. He was too light a man to carry bodily the wounded friend who lay at his feet. He could certainly not leave the man, for his ear at the chest, his finger on the pulse, assured him that Saxon was alive. He had been struck by a falling timber from a balcony above, and the skull seemed badly hurt, probably fractured. As Rodman stood debating the dilemma, a shadow fell across the pavement. He turned with a nervous start to recognize at his back a newcomer, palpably a foreigner and presumably a Frenchman, though his excellent English, when he spoke, was only slightly touched with accent. The stranger dropped to his knee, and made a rapid examination, as Rodman had done. It did not occur to him at the moment that the man standing near him was an acquaintance of the other who lay unconscious at their feet. "The gentleman is evidently a non-combatant--and he is badly hurt, monsieur," he volunteered. "We most assuredly cannot leave him here to die." Rodman answered with some eagerness: "Will you help me to carry him to a place where he'll be safe?" "Gladly." The Frenchman looked about. "Surely, he can be cared for near here." But Rodman laid a persuasive hand on the other's arm. "He must be taken to the water front," he declared, earnestly. "After the conference, he would not be safe here." The stranger drew back, and stood for a moment twisting his dark mustache, while his eyes frowned inquiringly. He was disinclined to take part in proceedings that might have political after-effects. He had volunteered to assist an injured civilian, not a participant, or refugee. There were many such in the streets. "This is a matter of life and death," urged Rodman, rapidly. "This man is Mr. Robert Saxon. He had left this coast with a clean bill of health. I explain all this because I need your help. When he had made a part of his return journey, he learned by chance that the city was threatened, and that a lady who was very important to him was in danger. He hastened back. In order to reach her, he became involved, and used the _insurrecto_ countersign. Mr. Saxon is a famous artist." Rodman was giving the version of the story he knew the wounded man would wish to have told. He said nothing of Carter. At the last words, the stranger started forward. "A famous painter!" His voice was full of incredulous interest. "Monsieur, you can not by any possibility mean that this is Robert A. Saxon, the first disciple of Frederick Marston!" The man's manner became enthused and eager. "You must know, monsieur," he went on, "that I am Louis Herve, myself a poor copyist of the great Marston. At one time, I had the honor to be his pupil. To me, it is a pleasure to be of any service to Mr. Saxon. What are we to do?"