A black mist flickered before her. Through it, as if she were looking through smoked glass, she saw him walk swiftly, his right hand outstretched as if in greeting, up to the unsteady, malevolent figure in the dressing-gown. The mist before her eyes grew thicker, darker. When it had cleared again, Hastings had the pistol in his hand. As she watched, the numbness of fear still upon her, the man Masterson crumpled to the floor. With a great effort she rose from the chair. On her feet, she stumbled. She felt herself falling, gave a piteous little cry, and was caught up in Hastings’s arms. Now that safety had come she broke down. Her body shook with sobs. Then came tears and more tears. She burrowed her face into Hastings’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek up and down against the smooth cloth of his coat. Hastings, his heart beating too fast for comfort, looked down. All he could see was the little black hat. The shaking of her body in his arms, the very fact that in his arms she was, deprived him of speech. They remained locked together. From the floor behind them came a hoarse, delirious babbling. Neither man nor woman heard it. The sobbing grew quieter. A great resolve swelled in Hastings’s bosom. “I w-want a—a hanky,” said a small voice from his shoulder. From his breast pocket he whipped a square foot of white silk. A little hand snatched at it. Its work completed, she smiled up at him, then endeavoured to withdraw from his arms. Hastings held on. “Please,” said the small voice, “will you let me go?” “No!” roared Hastings. “No! Never any more!” Slowly, she raised her head to look at him again. Immediately, thoroughly, satisfyingly, he kissed her. For a moment, a fleeting fraction of time, it seemed to him that the soft lips had answered the pressure of his. But then she broke free. “_Mr. Hastings!_” She stamped her foot. “How dare——” A grin of delight was on his face. “’Sno use,” he murmured. “’Sno use any more. I’m not frightened of you now, you _darling!_” He snatched at her again. From the floor there came again that hoarse mutter. Again they didn’t hear it. “And you know you’ve been in love with me for years,” said Hastings. “Oh! I have _not_!” She was all indignation. Suddenly it went. “Yes, I have, though—for months, anyway. Oh, Jack, Jack, why didn’t you do this before?” “Frightened,” said Hastings. “Wind up.” “But—but whatever of?” “You—and your damned sufficient efficiency. Yesterday I swore to myself I’d pluck up the nerve to tell you as soon as I caught you, red-handed, making a mistake. And you see I have——” Her eyes flashed. “What d’you mean? _Mistake!_ I like that! When I’ve caught the murderer——” They both swung round, remembrance flooding back. The owner of the flat lay beside the over-turned table, a shapeless heap in the dark dressing-gown. Margaret shivered. “Mistake, indeed!” she began.