no regret at the discovery that Keudell's nose was bleeding profusely, giving an air of sodden dejection to his haughtily up-turned Teutonic mustache. She felt no sympathy for the bruised and battered Dorgan, with his discolored eyes and his sadly torn clothing. His ultimate fate did not even concern her. She was sick of the whole house. Her soul was by this time preoccupied with its one passion, its one undeviating and all-consuming passion to escape, to get away from that abode of uncouth encounters and mysterious enemies. Something within her whimpered like a kenneled hound for release from those gloomy quarters. Her lungs ached for the breath of the open again. And she intended to go, she solemnly told herself, while the going was good.
To go by the natural avenue of the street-door, she knew, was now out of the question. That would take her too close to Keudell, who at any moment could leave Dorgan to his own devices. So she stood back in the doorway, studying the stairs that led upward. She was familiar enough with the structure of city houses to feel assured that somewhere from those upper regions would be an open-
