"You see this rope. It's meant for a fire-escape. You must let yourself down by it. You'll find yourself in a court, filled with empty barrels. That leads into a bake-shop—you can see the oven lights and smell the bread. Give the man ten lira, and he's sure to let you pass. Can you do it? Do you understand?"
"Yes," he said, still a little bewildered. "But where will I meet you?"
She pondered a moment.
"In Trieste, a week from tomorrow. But can you manage the rope?"
He laughed a little. "I ought to! I've been through a poolroom raid or two, over home!"
"In Trieste then, a week from morrow!"
She handed him her brandy-flask.
"You may need it," she explained. He was on his feet by this time, struggling to pull himself together.
"But you can't face that alone," he remonstrated, with a thumb-jerk toward the hall. "I won't see you touched by those damned rats!"
"'Ssssh!" she warned him. "They can't do anything to me now, except search me for those papers!"