her again. "Tell me, little
new chum! Was it against your will?"

"No! Oh, no!" She whispered the words through tears. "I gave
in--willingly. I thought it was better than--an empty life."

"Ah!" The word fell like a groan. "And that's what you're going to
condemn me to, is it?"

She turned in his arms, summoning her strength. "We've got to play the
game," she said. "I've got to keep my word--whatever it costs. And
you--you are going to keep yours."

"My word?" he questioned, swiftly.

"Yes." She lifted her head. "If--if you really care about being
honest--if your love is worth--anything at all--that is the only way.
You promised--you promised--to save him."

"Save him for you?" he said.

"Yes--save him for me." She did not know how she uttered the words, but
somehow they were spoken.

They went into a silence that wrung her soul, and it cost her every atom
of her strength not to recall them.

Bill Warden stood quite motionless for many pulsing seconds, then--very,
very slowly--at length his hold began to slacken.

In the end he set her on her feet--and she was free. "All right, little
new chum!" he said, and she heard a new note in his voice--a note that
waked in her a wild impulse to spring back into his arms and cling to
him--and cling to him. "I'll do it--for you--if it kills me--just to show
you--little girl--just to show you--what my love for you is really
worth."

He stood a moment, facing her; then his hands clenched and he turned
away.

"Let's go down the hill!" he said. "I'll see you in safety first."

CHAPTER XI

WITHOUT CONDITIONS

In the midst of a darkness that could be felt Fletcher Hill stood,
grimly motionless, waiting. He knew that strong-room, had likened it
to a condemned cell every time he had entered it, and with bitter humour
he told himself that he had put his own neck into the noose with a
vengeance this time.

Not often--if ever--before had he made the fatal mistake of trusting one
who was untrustworthy. He would not have dreamed of trusting Harley, for
instance. But for some reason he had chosen to repose his confidence in
Warden, and now it seemed that he was to pay the price of his rashness.
It was that fact that galled him far more than the danger with which he
was confronted. That he, Fletcher Hill--the Bloodhound--ever wary and
keen of scent, should have failed to detect a _ruse_ so transparent--this
inflicted a wound that his pride found it hard to sustain.