e, save me, save me!" she cried, and then and there flung
herself into his arms.

"My darling!" he whispered loudly, and catching her up made for the
window. As they disappeared through it, Deane softly and swiftly opened
the door and disappeared in his turn. Mary and John were left alone.
Then Mary's composure gave way. Sinking into a chair she cried:

"And I am left! Nobody cares for me. What shall I do?"

In an instant John's strong arm was round her. "I care for you!" he
cried, and raising her almost senseless form, he rushed to the window.
The ladder was gone!

"Gone!" he shrieked. "Where is it?"

There was no answer. The little crowd had gone too.

"We are lost," he said.

Mary opened her eyes.

"Lost!" she echoed.

"Lost! Abandoned--by those who loved--ah, no, no, Mary. In the hour of
danger--then we see the truth!"

Mary's arms clasped him closer.

"Ah, John, John," she said, "we must die together, dear."

John stooped and kissed her.

Suddenly the door was opened and Deane entered. He wore a comically
apologetic look, and carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand.

"Excuse me," he said. "There's been--er--slight but very natural
mistake. It wasn't--er--exactly dynamite--it's--er--a preserved-peach
tin. That fool Painter----"

"Then we're safe!" cried Mary.

"Yes, thank Heaven," answered Deane fervently.

"Oh, John!" she cried.

Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the door after him.

Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, forgetful of their sufferings,
were restoring Madame Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a
bottle of champagne for Arthur Laing; Sir Roger Deane was talking in a
low voice and persuasive tones to an imposing representative of the
police. "What passed between them is unknown; possibly only words,
possibly something else; at any rate, after a time, Deane smiled, the
great man smiled responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring
something about Anglais, milords, and droles. The precise purport of
his reflections could not be distinctly understood by those in the
house, for civility made him inarticulate, but when he was safely
outside he looked at a piece of crisp paper in his hand, then, with his
thumb pointing over his shoulder, he gave an immense shrug, and
exclaimed:

"Mais voila, un fou!" and to this day he considers Roger Deane the very
type of a maniac.

Mary and John descended. As soon as they appeared Dora jumped up from
her seat a