But the girl was tugging at his hand. "Come!" she begged breathlessly. "Come! There is a way! Before they break in—"
"But this man—?" Kirkwood hung back, troubled.
"They—the police are sure to find and care for him."
"So they will." He chuckled, "And serve him right! He'd have choked me to death, with all the good will in the world!"
"Oh, do hurry!"
Turning, she sped light-footed down the staircase to the lower hall, he at her elbow. Here the uproar was loudest—deep enough to drown whatever sounds might have been made by two pairs of flying feet. For all that they fled on tiptoe, stealthily, guilty shadows in the night; and at the newel-post swung back into the unbroken blackness which shrouded the fastnesses backward of the dwelling. A sudden access of fury on the part of the alarmist at the knocker, spurred them on with quaking hearts. In half a dozen strides, Kirkwood, guided only by instinct and the frou-frou of the girl's skirts as she ran invisible before him, stumbled on the uppermost steps of a steep staircase; only a hand-rail saved him, and that at the last moment. He stopped short, shocked into caution. From below came a contrite whisper: "I'm so sorry! I should have warned you."
He pulled himself together, glaring wildly at nothing. "It's all right—"
"You're not hurt, truly? Oh, do come quickly."
She waited for him at the bottom of the flight;—happily for him, for he was all at sea.
"Here—your hand—let me guide you. This darkness is dreadful ..."