“They may take it into their crazy heads to do that, anyway,” protested Ford, “so the sooner I get you away, the better. I've only to smash the panels close to the bolts, put my arm through the hole, and draw the bolts back. Then, another blow on the spring lock when the firing is loudest, and we are in the hall. Should anything happen to me, you must know how to make your escape alone. Across the hall is a door leading to an iron ladder. That ladder leads to a trap-door. The trap-door is open. When you reach the roof, run westward toward a lighted building.” “I am not going without you,” said Miss Dale quietly; “not after what you have done for me.” “I haven't done anything for you yet,” objected Ford. “But in case I get caught I mean to make sure there will be others on hand who will.” He pulled his pencil and a letter from his pocket, and on the back of the envelope wrote rapidly: “I will try to get Miss Dale up through the trap in the roof. You can reach the roof by means of the apartment house in Devonshire Street. Send men to meet her.” In the groups of officials half hidden in the doorway farther down the street, he could make out the bandaged head of Cuthbert. “Cuthbert!” he called. Weighting the envelope with a coin, he threw it into the air. It fell in the gutter, under a lamp-post, and full in view, and at once the two madmen below splashed the street around it with bullets. But, indifferent to the bullets, a policeman sprang from a dark areaway and flung himself upon it. The next moment he staggered. Then limping, but holding himself erect, he ran heavily toward the group of officials. The Home Secretary snatched the envelope from him, and held it toward the light. In his desire to learn if his message had reached those on the outside, Ford leaned far over the sill of the window. His imprudence was all but fatal. From the roof opposite there came a sudden yell of warning, from directly below him a flash, and a bullet grazed his forehead and shattered the window-pane above him. He was deluged with a shower of broken glass. Stunned and bleeding, he sprang back. With a cry of concern, Miss Dale ran toward him. “It's nothing!” stammered Ford. “It only means I must waste no more time.” He balanced his iron rod as he would a pikestaff, and aimed it at the upper half of the door to the hall. “When the next volley comes,” he said, “I'll smash the panel.” With the bar raised high, his muscles on a strain, he stood alert and poised, waiting for a shot from the room below to call forth an answering volley from the house-tops. But no sound came from below. And the sharp-shooters, waiting for the madmen to expose themselves, held their fire. Ford's muscles relaxed, and he lowered his weapon. He turned his eyes inquiringly to the girl. “What's THIS mean?” he demanded. Unconsciously his voice had again dropped to a whisper. “They're short of ammunition,” said the girl, in a tone as low as his own; “or they are coming HERE.”