than to throw himself upon her generosity. And as soon as he could make himself heard in the clear yet concentrated whisper that was a trick of his trade, a whisper inaudible to ears a yard distant from those to which it was pitched, he addressed her in a manner at once peremptory and apologetic.
"If you please, Miss Bannon — not a word, not a whisper!"
She paused and nodded compliance, questioning eyes steadfast to his.
Doubtfully, wondering that she betrayed so little surprise, he pursued as one committed to a forlorn hope:
"It's vitally essential that I leave this hotel without it becoming known. If I may count on you to say nothing — "
She gave him reassurance with a small gesture. "But how?" she breathed in the least of whispers. "The concierge — !"
"Leave that to me — I know another way. I only need a chance — "
"Then won't you take me with you?"
"Eh?" he stammered, dashed.
Her hands moved toward him in a flutter of entreaty: "I too must leave unseen — I must! Take me with you — out of this place — and I promise you no one shall ever know — "
He lacked time to weigh the disadvantages inherent in her proposition; though she offered him a heavy handicap, he had no choice but to accept it without protest.
"Come, then," he told her — "and not a sound — "
She signified assent with another nod; and on this he turned to an adjacent door, opened it gently, whipped out his flash-lamp, and passed through. Without sign of hesitancy, she followed; and like two shadows they dogged the dancing spot-light of the flash-lamp, through a linen-closet and service-room, down a shallow well threaded by a spiral of iron steps and, by way of the long corridor linking the kitchen-offices, to a stout door secured only by huge, old-style bolts of iron.
Thus, in less than two minutes from the instant of their encounter, they stood outside Troyon's back door, facing a cramped, malodorous alley-way — a dark and noisome souvenir of that wild mediaeval Paris whose effacement is an enduring monument to the fame of the good Baron Haussmann.
Now again it was raining, a thick drizzle that settled slowly, lacking little of a fog's opacity; and the faint glimmer from the street lamps of that poorly lighted quarter, reflected by the low-swung clouds, lent Lanyard and the girl little aid as they picked their way cautiously, and always in complete silence, over the rude and slimy cobbles of the foul back way. For the adventurer had pocketed his lamp, lest its beams bring down upon them some prowling creature of Popinot's; though he felt passably sure that the alley had been left unguarded in the confidence that he would never dream of its existence, did he survive to seek escape from Troyon's.
For all its might and its omniscience, Lanyard doubted if the Pack had as yet identified Michael Lanyard with that ill-starred Marcel who once had been as intimate with this forgotten way as any skulking tom of the quarter.
But with the Lone Wolf confidence was never akin to foolhardiness; and if on leaving Troyon's he took the girl's hand without asking permission and quite as a matter-of-course, and drew it through his arm — it was his left arm that he so dedicated to gallantry; his right hand remained unhampered, and never far from the grip of his automatic.
Nor was he altogether confident of his companion. The weight of her hand upon his arm, the fugitive contacts of her shoulder, seemed to him, just then, the most vivid and interesting things in life; the consciousness of her personality at his side was like a shaft of golden light penetrating the darkness of his dilemma. But as minutes passed and their flight was unchallenged, his mood grew dark with doubts and quick with distrust. Reviewing it all, he thought to detect something too damnably adventitious in the way she had nailed him, back there in the corridor of Troyon's. It was a bit too coincidental — "a bit thick!" — like that specious yarn of somnambulism she had told to excuse her presence in his room. Come to examine it, that excuse had been far too clumsy to hoodwink any but a man bewitched by beauty in distress.
Who was she, anyway? And what her interest in him? What had she been after in his room? — this American girl making a first visit to Paris in company with her venerable ruin of a parent? Who, for that matter, was Bannon? If her story of sleep-walking were untrue, then Bannon must have been at the bottom of her essay in espionage — Bannon, the intimate of De Morbihan, and an American even as the murderer of poor Roddy was an American!
Was this singularly casual encounter, then, but a cloak for further surveillance? Had he in his haste and desperation simply played into her hands, when he burdened himself with the care of her?
But it seemed absurd; to think that she… a girl like her, whose every word and gesture was eloquent of gentle birth and training…!
Yet — what had she wanted in his room? Somnambulists are sincere indeed in the indulgence of their failing when they time their expeditions so opportunely — and arm themselves with keys to fit strange doors. Come to think of it, he had been rather willfully blind to that flaw in her excuse…. Again, why should she be up and dressed and so madly bent on leaving Troyon's at half-past four in the morning? Why couldn't she wait for daylight at least? What errand, reasonable duty or design could have roused her out into the night and the storm at that weird hour? He wondered!
And momentarily he grew more jealously heedful of her, critical of every nuance in her bearing. The least trace of added pressure on his arm, the most subtle suggestion that she wasn't entirely indifferent to him or regarded him in any way other than as the chance-found comrade of an hour of trouble, would have served to fix his suspicions. For such, he told himself, would be the first thought of one bent on beguiling — to lead him on by some intimation, the more tenuous and elusive the more provocative, that she found his person not altogether objectionable.
But he failed to detect anything of this nature in her manner.
So, what was one to think? That she was mental enough to appreciate how ruinous to her design would be any such advances? …
In such perplexity he brought her to the end of the alley and there pulled up for a look round before venturing out into the narrow, dark, and deserted side street that then presented itself.
At this the girl gently disengaged her hand and drew away a pace or two; and when Lanyard had satisfied himself that there were no Apaches in the offing, he turned to see her standing there, just within the mouth of the alley, in a pose of blank indecision.
Conscious of his regard, she turned to his inspection a face touched with a fugitive, uncertain smile.
"Where are we?" she asked.
He named the street; and she shook her head. "That doesn't mean much to me," she confessed; "I'm so strange to Paris, I know only a few of the principal streets. Where is the boulevard St. Germain?"
Lanyard indicated the direction: "Two blocks that way."
"Thank you." She advanced a step or two, but paused again. "Do you know, possibly, just where I could find a taxicab?"
"I'm afraid you won't find any hereabouts at this hour," he replied. "A fiacre, perhaps — with luck: I doubt if there's one disengaged nearer than Montmartre, where business is apt to be more brisk."
"Oh!" she cried in dismay. "I hadn't thought of that…. I thought Paris never went to sleep!"
"Only about three hours earlier than most of the world's capitals….
But perhaps I can advise you — "
"If you would be so kind! Only, I don't like to be a nuisance — "
He smiled deceptively: "Don't worry about that. Where do you wish to go?"
"To the Gare du Nord."
That made him open his eyes. "The Gare du Nord!" he echoed. "But — I beg your pardon — "
"I wish to take the first train for London," the girl informed him calmly.
"You'll have a while to wait," Lanyard suggested. "The