But, when his fingers touched the smooth, white skin of her arm and seized her in an effort to force the diamond from her, a change came over him. A fierce return of his old love for her swept through him. All his hate melted, like ice returned to its first form of water. His arm tightened about her, drawing closer; his unshaven, stubbly chin buried against her throat. "The law says you're mine!" he panted. "You're my wife. I--I guess I ain't stopped bein' crazy about you even--even when I was wantin' to kill you--wantin' to choke the life outta you like--like this." The fingers of one hand raised before her face, writhing, twisting, like tentacles; they neared her soft throat, toyed against the skin. Helen dared not scream, but she struggled in silent terror. Her arms flailed against his sides, and her hand struck against the bulky automatic in his coat. Her fingers slipped swiftly into his pocket and seized the butt of the gun. "You ain't this guy's wife," he went on hoarsely. "You're my wife; the law says so, and you're goin' with me." He was so beside himself that he did not feel the tug of the pistol, as it came free from his pocket. And then there crashed through the stillness of the house the slam of a closing door. Don's arms dropped limp. "What was that?" he whispered, returning to the realization that he was a hunted man, fleeing for his life. "I think it's Kirklan," she whispered. "His room adjoins this one. Sh! He'll hear you." Haskins took a flying leap across the room and switched off the lights; his hand went to his pocket. "The gat--it's gone!" he muttered under his breath. "It musta dropped outta my pocket when I was climbin' up the porch." He groped through the darkness. "Helen!" "Sh!" "You gotta stash me away somewheres. If I get nabbed, what I said goes--I spill what I know." Helen in the darkness concealed the automatic beneath the flowing sleeve of her robe. With the gun she was no longer afraid of Don, but she still did fear his threats, his power to send her to Auburn prison on a charge of bigamy. A moment before he had loved her madly; the next he might hate her again with just as much intensity. She had to aid him--protect him. "I'll hide you," she told him, "on the third floor--an old storeroom. No one ever goes there. I'll bring you food. I'll try to get you the money; I'll get you money--somehow. I'll see that you get away. Follow me." Cautiously she opened the door. The hallway was in friendly darkness. She groped along the wall, fearful that Don would betray their presence, but he followed her in stealthy silence. The third-floor stairway was inclosed, and it was reached through a door which, since the third floor was seldom used, creaked dismally, as she swung it open. "Up there!" she whispered. "The last door at the left; you'll know it. It's a storeroom. I'll see you--some time to-morrow."