They knelt side by side before the window-sill. The gardens were still faintly visible in the dim moonlight, but all signs of disturbance had passed away. She clung nervously to his arm.
"Arnold," she whispered, "tell me, what do you think he has done?"
"I don't suppose he has done anything very much," Arnold replied, cheerfully. "What I really think is that he has got mixed up with some of these anarchists, writing for this wretched paper, and they have probably let him in for some of their troubles."
They stayed there for a measure of time they were neither of them able to compute. At last, with a little sigh, he rose to his feet. For the first time they began to realize what had happened.
"Isaac will not come back," he said.
She clung to him hysterically.
"Arnold," she cried, "I am nervous. I could not sleep in that room. I never want to see it again as long as I live."
For a moment he was perplexed. Then he smiled. "It's rather an awkward situation for us attic dwellers," he remarked. "I'll bring your couch in here, if you like, and you can lie before the window, where it's cool."
"You don't mind?" she begged. "I couldn't even think of going to sleep. I should sit up all night, anyhow."
"Not a bit," he assured her. "I don't think it would be much use thinking about bed."