Her eyes were unafraid. "Don’t say you came on my account." "But I did; I did. Father’s too ill to ask questions. It was a slight heart attack, the doctor said: he’s been so worried lately, Father has, and so overworked. But I wanted to know, and I tried to telephone here, but they said the connection was broken. Then I was sorry for not answering that call you made before, and when they said you hadn’t got back to the Arapahoe, I was afraid. So I told Father I was going to Mr. Nicholson’s mission—he must have thought me dreadfully unkind to leave him for that—and I had James drive me—Oh!" she broke off: "I wonder if _he’s_ hurt?" "The chauffeur?" Luke remembered. "I saw him just as I got to the car," he chuckled. "He’d reached the outskirts of the crowd and was running for dear life. I don’t think they’ll catch him." The noise of the mob would grow from a hoarse mutter to a loud howl and then sink to a low murmur. "Luke," she said, "it _was_ you rescued me." He listened to the noise. "Then I’ve probably only rescued you from the frying-pan to dump you into the fire. I wish I’d had the sense to take you in the opposite direction. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. Of course, they’ll simply have to send more police soon and attack these fellows from the rear: the soldiers haven’t the right to drive away the crowd, and Breil’s men daren’t leave the building. But I do wish I hadn’t brought you here!" "You’ve brought me where _you_ are," said Betty. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted. Luke’s breath caught in his throat. "Betty," he said, "do you mean——" She did not quail. "I mean I love you." "What?" He drew back, afraid of her, afraid of himself. "I know you weren’t yourself," she said. "I know how all this trouble has upset you. I know you didn’t mean those things." The reversal was too much for him. He leaned against the table and burst into laughter. An instant ago the roar of the crowd had seemed miles away, had seemed no more than any recurrent noise of city life. They two, Betty and he, had seemed to him set apart from it all, remote from it, together. Now—— "Luke!" she was crying. A picture drifted into his mind. It was a picture of pine trees and the sun in a blue sky full of fleecy clouds and a long white road winding, dusty and carefree, to the end of the world. "Luke——" He could not hear her now. He saw terror in her face, but the noise from the street rose, rattled at the window-pane, and engulfed her words. A new cry rang out from the mob—a cry so sharp and loud that both the persons in the room forgot themselves and ran to the window. They looked out upon the tossing faces below. The crowd had turned. It was elbowing, straining necks, rising on tiptoe, gazing backward.