ared for that? And was she going with him?

He had no time to answer. Their feet struck the gravel path leading to
the door of Kedsty's place, and straight up this path the girl turned,
straight toward the light blazing in the window. Then, to his
amazement, he heard in the sweep of storm her voice crying out in glad
triumph,

"We're home!"

Home! His breath came in a sudden gulp. He was more than astounded. He
was shocked. Was she mad or playing an amazingly improper joke? She had
freed him from a cell to lead him to the home of the Inspector of
Police, the deadliest enemy the world now held for him. He stopped, and
Marette Radisson tugged at his hand, pulling him after her, insisting
that he follow. She was clutching his thumb as though she thought he
might attempt to escape.

"It is safe, M'sieu Jeems," she cried. "Don't be afraid!"

M'sieu Jeems! And the laughing note of mockery in her voice! He rallied
himself and followed her up the three steps to the door. Her hand found
the latch, the door opened, and swiftly they were inside. The lamp in
the window was close to them, but for a space he could not see because
of the water in his eyes. He blinked it out, drew a hand across his
face, and looked at Marette. She stood three or four paces from him.
Her face was very white, and she was panting as if hard-run for breath,
but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him. The water was
running from her in streams.

"You are wet," she said. "And I am afraid you will catch cold. Come
with me!"

Again she was making fun of him just as she had made fun of him at
Cardigan's! She turned, and he ran upstairs behind her. At the top she
waited for him, and as he came up, she reached out her hand, as if
apologizing for having taken it from him when they entered the
bungalow. He held it again as she led him down the hall to a door
farthest from the stair. This she opened, and they entered. It was dark
inside, and the girl withdrew her hand again, and Kent heard her moving
across the room. In that darkness a new and thrilling emotion possessed
him. The air he was breathing was not the air he had breathed in the
hall. In it was the sweet scent of flowers, and of something else--the
faint and intangible perfume of a woman's room. He waited, staring. His
eyes were wide when a match leaped into flame in Marette's fingers.
Then he stood in the glow of a lamp.

He continued to stare in the stupidity of a shock to which he wa