"Yes, Charlie. Thanks for what you did--we won't forget you--" The gate thumped closed. Its lock turned. Charlie whirled and vanished in the shadows of the trees. * * * * * The girl clung to Alan's hand and ran swiftly, lightly as a fawn, beside him. The uproar at the hospital faded into the distance. Within ten minutes, running through the darkness over the stony road, Alan and the girl were at our car. We bundled the girl into the back seat. Nanette sat with her. "Wrap her in the cloak, Nanette! Is it there?" "Yes." "Move over, Ed," Alan said. "I'll drive." In the silence other shots sounded off at Turber's. Alan hastily backed the car and turned it. "Raising hell up there! But I got her!" We sped away into the night. The thing was clear to us now. This girl had come in a Time-traveling tower from the Past--or the Future. Turber also possessed a Time-vehicle; one more effective than the tower, since it seemed a vehicle also capable of traveling through Space. This girl undoubtedly knew Turber in some other Time-world. And feared him--just as Nanette feared him. With purring motor we were speeding along one of the island's highways, almost deserted at this hour of the night. "Which way you going, Alan? Not to the ferry?" "No. West, over the bridge into Jersey. Get back to New York that way. We're safe enough." "What are you going to do with the girl?" I asked. He hardly knew. "Take her home, I guess. See if we can't learn to understand her. She's intelligent--she speaks some kind of language." We sped through a quiet, sleeping village. It was a long drive, around this way through Jersey. The night was well advanced toward the new dawn when we were again in Manhattan. We had stopped once on a lonely Jersey road. Stopped by Nanette's voice. "Alan! She's trying to talk to me!" We drew down the car curtains; lighted the tiny dome light. The girl was much smaller than Nanette; she sat, with her blue robe crushed about her, enveloped in Nanette's long cloak. She was smiling, gesturing. "She's beautiful, Alan. She's been talking--I can't understand." Her voice was soft; queer liquid syllables, queerly intoned. A voice like music; the wind in harp strings, stirring them to murmur--but it meant nothing intelligible to us. But there were gestures. I said: "She understands! She's trying to show us she understands--" Nanette demanded: "Is she looking at me? Look, dear--I'm Nanette--understand? Oh, you can see--and if you can see, you must understand! I'm Nanette." She laid her hand on her own breast. "Can you say it? Nanette--" The girl said, quite clearly, "Nanette!" And laughed with a low ripple of pleasure. "Nanette! Lea! Nanette! Lea!" She was indicating herself. "Lea!" "Her name is Lea! Yes, dear, we understand you." I murmured: "And at Bellevue--"