“You will in a minute,” said Danglar softly. “You're the bait--see? Cloran and I will be at supper and watching the fox-trotters. You blow in and show yourself--I don't need to tell you how, you're clever enough at that sort of thing yourself--and the minute he recognizes you as the woman he's been looking for that murdered Deemer, you pretend to recognize him for the first time too, and then you beat it like you had the scare of your life for the door. He'll follow you on the jump. I don't know what it's all about, and I sit tight, and that lets me out. And now get this! There'll be two taxicabs outside. If there's more than two, it's the first two I'm talking about. You jump into the one at the head of the line. Cloran won't need any invitation to grab the second one and follow you. That's all! It's the last ride he'll take. It'll be our boys, and not chauffeurs, who'll be driving those cars to-night, and they've got their orders where to go. Cloran won't come back. Understand, Bertha'?” There was only one answer to make, only one answer that she dared make. She made it mechanically, though her brain reeled. A man named Cloran was to be murdered; and she was to show herself as this--this Bertha--and... “Yes,” she said. “Good!” said Danglar. He pulled out his watch again. “All right, then! We've been here long enough.” He rose briskly. “It's time to make a move. You hop it back to the garret, and get rid of that fancy dress. I've got to meet Cloran uptown first. Come on, Matty, let us out.” The place stifled her. She got up and moved quickly through the intervening room. She heard Danglar and his crippled brother talking earnestly together as they followed her. And then the cripple brushed by her in the darkness, and opened the front door--and Danglar had drawn her to him in a quick embrace. She did not struggle; she dared not. Her heart seemed to stand still. Danglar was whispering in her ear: “I promised I'd make it up to you, Bertha, old girl. You'll see--after to-night. We'll have another honey-moon. You go on ahead now--I can't be seen with Gypsy Nan. And don't be late--the Silver Sphinx at eleven.” She ran out on the street. Her fingers mechanically clutched at her shawl to loosen it around her throat. It seemed as though she were choking, that she could not breathe. The man's touch upon her had seemed like contact with some foul and loathsome thing; the scene in that room back there like some nightmare of horror from which she could not awake. XVI. THE SECRET PANEL