mount them. Who was it there behind her? One of the unknown lodgers on the lower floor, or? She could not see, of course. It was pitch black. But she could hear. And as she knelt now on the narrow landing, and felt with her fingers along the floor for the aperture, where, imitating the custom of Gypsy Nan, she had left her key when she went out, she heard the footsteps coming steadily on, passing the doors below her, and making toward the garret ladder. And then, stifling a startled little cry, her hand closed on the key, and closed, as it had closed on that first night when she had returned here in the rôle of Gypsy Nan, on a piece of paper wrapped around the key. The days of isolation were ended with climacteric effect; the pendulum had swung full the other way—to-night there was both a visitor and a message!
The paper detached from the key and thrust into her bodice, she stood up quickly. A form, looming up even in the darkness, snowed on the garret stairs.
"Who's dere?" she croaked.
"It's all right," a voice answered in low tones. "You were just ahead of me on the street. I saw you come in. It's Pierre."
Pierre! So that was his name! It was only the voice she recognized. Pierre—Danglar! She fumbled for the keyhole, found it, and inserted the key.
"Well, how's Bertha to-night?"
There seemed to be a strange exhilaration in the man's voice. He was standing beside her now, close beside her, and now his hand played with a curiously caressing motion on her shoulder. The touch seemed to scorch and burn her. Who was this Danglar, who was Pierre to her, and to whom she was Bertha? Her breath came quickly in spite of herself; there came, too, a frenzy of aversion, and impulsively she flung
