only—and so he avoids that pest a concierge. With your permission, I'll assign you to the studio—up here."
And leading the way up a narrow flight of steps, he made a light in the huge room that was the upper storey.
"I believe you'll be comfortable," he said—"that divan yonder is as easy a couch as one could wish—and there's this door you can lock at the head of the staircase; while I, of course, will be on guard below.… And now, Miss Bannon … unless there's something more I can do—?"
The girl answered with a wan smile and a little broken sigh. Almost involuntarily, in the heaviness of her fatigue, she had surrendered to the hospitable arms of a huge lounge-chair.
Her weary glance ranged the luxuriously appointed studio and returned to Lanyard's face; and while he waited he fancied something moving in those wistful eyes, so deeply shadowed with distress, perplexity, and fatigue.
"I'm very tired indeed," she confessed—"more than I guessed. But I'm sure I shall be comfortable. … And I count myself very fortunate, Mr. Lanyard. You've been more kind than I deserved. Without you, I don't like to think what might have become of me. …"
"Please don't!" he pleaded and, suddenly discountenanced by consciousness of his duplicity, turned to the stairs. "Good night, Miss Bannon," he mumbled; and was half-way down before he heard his valediction faintly echoed.
As he gained the lower floor, the door was closed at the top of the stairs and its bolt shot home with a soft thud.
