"But they can't lock you up until they've caught you," said I reassuringly. "And I will see to it that they do not catch you."
"I—I am depending on you entirely, Mr. Smart," she said anxiously. "Some day I may be in a position to repay you for all the kindness—"
"Please, please!"
"—and all the risk you are taking for me," she completed. "You see, you haven't the excuse any longer that you don't know my name and story. You are liable to be arrested yourself for—"
There came a sharp rapping on the door at this instant—a rather imperative, sinister rapping, if one were to judge by the way we started and the way we looked at each other. We laughed nervously.
"Goodness! You'd thing Sherlock Holmes himself was at the door," she cried. "See who it is, please."
I went to the door. Poopendyke was there. He was visibly excited.
"Can you come down at once, Mr. Smart?" he said in a voice not meant to reach the ears of the Countess.
"What's up?" I questioned sharply.
"The jig, I'm afraid," he whispered sententiously. Poopendyke, being a stenographer, never wasted words. He would have made a fine playwright.