she had left. O'Reilly was there, searching for her. It
had been simple to say, while she stood on a solid floor, that he would
not look out of the window. But he might look out: he might hear her
feet shuffling along the ledge. If his head appeared now, she would
fall.

The girl began to shake all over like a winter leaf on a high branch.
She would have to go, she thought. But the curtain was blowing very
near, so near that she ventured another step. The lace brushed her
fingers. With a last effort she grasped a fold. Courage came back. Now
she had let go of O'Reilly's window frame. She had passed on beyond hope
of return, and yet she had no firm grasp upon the curtain. Before it
could give the support a rope gives a climber, she must slowly,
patiently, draw it toward her inch by inch until she had it taut.

"Angel, are you praying for me?" she wondered. Because she could not
pray for herself. She could only count. Dimly, she felt it odd that it
should calm her nerves to count each time her fingers closed upon the
curtain. But it did calm them.

"Seven, eight, nine, ten." The fold of lace began to be taut. Drawing it
toward her, she started on once more on that endless journey of a few
inches. Thank heaven, the light in O'Reilly's bedroom had been switched
off. The man must have given up the chase, and gone back to the sitting
room. For the present she was safe from him. But what a queer word
"safe" was, just then. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen." Thanks to the curtain
rope, she had almost reached her goal. "Fourteen, fifteen." She had got
so far that she could let the curtain go and fling her arms over the
window sill. She threw her body upon it, and lay still for an instant,
utterly spent now the strain was over. But was it over? No, not yet. If
her feet slipped from the coping, she would have no strength for the
effort of climbing in at the window. She would hang for a minute and
then--drop.

"The papers," she reminded herself, for a mental tonic. "They're so
nearly safe now. Brace up, Clo! A minute more and you'll be out of
trouble."

The room beyond was, like O'Reilly's, unlighted. Thank goodness, there'd
be no squalling lady's maid to give an alarm. Clo allowed herself time
to breathe, resting on the window sill. Then she prepared to draw
herself over. Wrapping the curtain round her right hand, and clutching
the lace firmly with her left hand, she found a heavy piece of furniture
just inside the window. It seeme