Until now Miss Dosia Dale had been only the chief feature in a newspaper story; the unknown quantity in a problem. She had meant no more to him than had the initials on her steamer-trunk. Now, through her beauty, through the distress in her eyes, through her warm and generous nature that had disclosed itself with her first words, she became a living, breathing, lovely, and lovable woman. All of the young man's chivalry leaped to the call. He had gone back several centuries. In feeling, he was a knight-errant rescuing beauty in distress from a dungeon cell. To the girl, he was a reckless young person with a dirty face and eyes that gave confidence. But, though a knight-errant, Ford was a modern knight-errant. He wasted no time in explanations or pretty speeches. “In two minutes,” he whispered, “I'll unlock your door. There's a ladder outside your room to the roof. Once we get to the roof the rest's easy. Should anything go wrong, I'll come back by this fire-escape. Wait at the window until you see your door open. Do you understand?” The girl answered with an eager nod. The color had flown to her cheek. Her eyes flashed in excitement. A sudden doubt assailed Ford. “You've no time to put on any more clothes,” he commanded. “I haven't got any!” said the girl. The knight-errant ran up the fire-escape, pulled himself over the edge of the roof, and, crossing it, dropped through the trap to the landing of the kitchen stairs. Here he expended the greater part of the two minutes he had allowed himself in cautiously opening the door into the hall. He accomplished this without a sound, and in one step crossed the hall to the door that held Miss Dale a prisoner. Slowly he drew back the bolts. Only the spring lock now barred him from her. With thumb and forefinger he turned the key, pushed the door gently open, and ran into the room. At the same instant from behind him, within six feet of him, he heard the staircase creak. A bomb bursting could not have shaken him more rudely. He swung on his heel and found, blocking the door, the giant bulk of Prothero regarding him over the barrel of his pistol. “Don't move!” said the Jew. At the sound of his voice the girl gave a cry of warning, and sprang forward. “Go back!” commanded Prothero. His voice was low and soft, and apparently calm, but his face showed white with rage. Ford had recovered from the shock of the surprise. He, also, was in a rage--a rage of mortification and bitter disappointment. “Don't point that gun at me!” he blustered. The sound of leaping footsteps and the voice of Pearsall echoed from the floor below. “Have you got him?” he called. Prothero made no reply, nor did he lower his pistol. When Pearsall was at his side, without turning his head, he asked in the same steady tone: “What shall we do with him?” The face of Pearsall was white, and furious with fear. “I told you----” he stormed. “Never mind what you told me,” said the Jew. “What shall we do with him? He knows!”