The tramp of heavy boots lent Duane the strength of desperation. He was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter. He almost tore his clothes off in that passage. The dust nearly stifled him. When he burst into the patio it was not a single instant too soon. But one deep gasp of breath revived him and he was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps turned him back. While there was a chance to get away he did not want to fight. He thought he heard someone running into the patio from the other end. He stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it might lead, he softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in. CHAPTER XX A low cry greeted Duane. The room was light. He saw Ray Longstreth sitting on her bed in her dressing-gown. With a warning gesture to her to be silent he turned to close the door. It was a heavy door without bolt or bar, and when Duane had shut it he felt safe only for the moment. Then he gazed around the room. There was one window with blind closely drawn. He listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating, dying away. Then Duane turned to Miss Longstreth. She had slipped off the bed, half to her knees, and was holding out trembling hands. She was as white as the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning hand commanding silence, Duane stepped softly forward, meaning to reassure her. “Oh!” she whispered, wildly; and Duane thought she was going to faint. When he got close and looked into her eyes he understood the strange, dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed he meant to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. Duane realized he must have looked pretty hard and fierce bursting into her room with that big gun in hand. The way she searched Duane's face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt him. “Listen. I didn't know this was your room. I came here to get away--to save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on--on your father and his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don't know who was listening. They're after me now.” Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening windows of thought. Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a woman in her eyes. “Tell me now. You were spying on my father?” Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched. “My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here--with him--with the place--the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if--if--It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I do?” The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention, reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, made clear the probability of being discovered in her room. “I'll have to get out of here,” whispered Duane.