Oliver had been sliding the window up all the while, cursing softly and horribly at each damnatory creak. Yes--there it was--and people thought fire-escapes ugly. Personally, Oliver had seldom seen anything in his life which combined concrete utility with abstract beauty so ideally as that little flight of iron steps leading down the entry outside the window into blackness. “You first, Ted.” “Can't.” The word seemed to come despairingly out of the bottom of his stomach. “Came here. Own accord. Got to see it through. Take my medicine.” “You fool, she doesn't want you here! Think of Elinor!” For a moment Oliver thought Ted was going to blaze into more blind rage. Then he checked himself. “I am. But listen to that.” The voices that came to them from the living-room were certainly both high and excited--and the second that Oliver heard one of them he knew that all his most preposterous suppositions on the drive down from Southampton had come preposterously and rather ghastly true. “Well, _listen_ to it! Do you know who the man is now? And will you get out on the fire-escape, you _fool_?” Ted listened intently for the space of a dozen seconds. Then “Oh my God!” he said and his head went into his hands. Oliver crept over to him. “Ted, listen--oh listen, damn you! What's the use of acting the chivalrous fool, _now_? Don't you see? Don't you understand? Don't you get it that if you leave she can explain it some way or other--that all you're doing by staying is ruining yourself and Elinor for a point of honor that hasn't any honor _to_ it?” “Oh sure. Sure. But listen to him--why great God, Ollie, if he has a gun he might kill her--probably will--Don't you see it's just because I hate the whole business now--and her--and myself--th'at I've got to stick it out? You go, Ollie, it's none of your business--” “You go. You blessed idiot, there's no use of both of us smashing. If anybody's got to stay--I can bluff it out a good deal better than you can--trust me--” “Oh rats. Not that it isn't very decent of you, Ollie, it is--and you'd do it--but I wouldn't even be a _person_ to let you--” They were both on their feet, talking in jerks, ears strained for every sound from that other room. “It's _perfectly_ simple--nobody's going to pull any gunplay--good Lord, imagine poor old Mr. Piper--” said Oliver uncertainly, and then as noises came to them that meant more than just talking, “_Get down that fire-escape_!” “I can't. Let go of me, Ollie. I mustn't Listen--something's up--something bad! Get out of the way there, Ollie, I've got to go in! It _isn't_ your funeral!”