MARJORIE had retired for the night at eleven o'clock. She had given up an attempt to bar the door against intruders, for her efforts to barricade herself in had been resented by the woman, and, moreover, they had been so ineffectual as to render the attempt a waste of time and energy.

The house boasted one storey, the ground and the first floor; her room was on the upper floor at the back of the house. It had been chosen partly for the reason that it was undoubtedly the most habitable of the apartments which the ramshackle dwelling boasted, and partly because from this position she could see little or nothing of the movements of those members of the "Red Hand" who were engaged in the nefarious work of preparing the culture.

The night was an unusually clear one, and when, after half an hour of sleeplessness, she arose to escape from the tumult of thought which assailed her, her steps turned instinctively to the one outlet upon the world which the room afforded. She leant her arms on the old-fashioned window-sill and looked wistfully out to the twinkling points of light upon the river.

No sound broke the stillness of the night, the house was wrapped in silence. Now and then there came to her the faint echo of a siren farther down the river. She stood for some time, and then, with a shiver, realized that the night was by no means warm.

Festini and his servants had provided her with a long black cloak. She took it down from its peg on the wall and wrapped it about her. Her fingers were still busy with the fastening at her throat, when a little sharp, metallic tap at the window made her turn with a start.

Her heart beat quickly as she stood motionless, watching. She waited nearly a minute before it came again. It was as though somebody were at the window.... There could be nobody there, she told herself. She walked softly to the window and opened it. The bars had been so placed that they came almost flush with the brickwork. It was impossible for her to see who stood directly below.

She waited a little while longer and heard a hiss. She stood back. She did not know why, but it seemed that the unknown was warning her. Then something fell on the floor at her feet.

She stooped and ran her hand lightly along the uncarpeted boards. Presently she found what she sought. It was a little pebble, but she was led to it by catching her fingers in a thin piece of twine, and by and by she had drawn up to the window a piece of thicker string.

She understood its meaning now. Rapidly she drew it in. There was a heavier weight at the end of it, and presently she came upon a stout, closely-woven hemp rope. This was the end of the series. Somebody on the ground without held the rope with gentle firmness.

Her hands trembling with excitement, she knotted the end about one of the bars of the window, and felt the man outside test the strength of it. Again and again he pulled as she watched anxiously the amateur knots she had tied.

To her delight they showed no signs of slipping.

The rope went taut again. There was a steady strain on it. She heard no sound, and it was with a startling suddenness that the bare head of a man appeared above the window-sill; he reached up and clasped a bar and came to rest sitting lightly on the ledge without.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered. He went to work methodically. The bars had been screwed on to a square of wood fitted into the window space, stapled and morticed into the brickwork itself.

She could not see his face, and he spoke too low for her ordinarily to recognize his voice; but this was Tillizini, and she knew it. He lost no time. A little electric lamp showed him the method by which the bars were fastened. They had been screwed on from the outside, sufficient security for the girl within, though offering no serious obstacle to a man armed with a screwdriver without.

Tillizini worked at fever heat. Clinging on to one bar, with one of his thin legs thrust through into the room, he had two bars out in ten minutes.

As he removed them he handed them to the girl, and she placed them quietly upon the bed.

He stepped lightly into the room, re-tied the rope to one of the remaining bars, fastened one end about her waist, and assisted her through the window.

"Stay at the bottom until I come," he said.

She had not long to wait; whilst her fingers were still unfastening the knot around her waist Tillizini was coming down the rope hand over hand.

"Wait!" he whispered. He disappeared into the darkness in the direction of the shed. Piled up alongside was basket after basket of a pattern. He walked swiftly along, unfastening the trap-fronts as he did so. Soon it would be light, and at the first sign of dawn the pigeons would begin their homeward flight. He returned to the girl.

"Move very slowly," he whispered, "and follow me."

They crouched down, and almost at a crawl crossed the big yard, the limits of which were still defined. They gained the marsh which lay between them and the river.

Still Tillizini showed no signs of abandoning his caution, and the girl, cramped and aching from her unaccustomed exertions, wondered why he still moved almost on hands and knees when the danger seemed to be past.

The ground underfoot was swampy, with every step she went ankle deep into liquid mud, she was breathing with difficulty, and her back ached with an intolerable, nagging pain. She felt she could go no farther; it seemed to her that she had been moving for horns across miles of country, although, in fact, she had not gone two hundred yards from the house, when Tillizini stopped, and motioned her forward.

"Stay here," he whispered.

Although the marsh was apparently a dead level, there were little hummocks and rises at irregular intervals, and toward one of the former he moved stealthily.

She thought she saw the black figure of a man sitting on the one dry space in the marsh, but fancy plays strange tricks on a dark and starless night, and her heart had beaten wildly a dozen times during that agonizing crawl at imaginary figures contesting her way of escape.

The man on the hummock was no figment of imagination, however; he sat cross-legged like a tailor, a big sheep-skin rug about his shoulders, a long-barrelled revolver on his knee.

The duty of outpost in this direction had fallen to Gregorio, the sour-faced man who had aroused Festini's anger earlier during the day.

The "Red Hand" had established a system of sentries to preclude any surprises, and from where he sat Gregorio could keep a clear lookout upon the river approaches to the house.

He sat wide awake and alert, his fingers touching the trigger of his revolver. All this Tillizini guessed rather than saw. He knew that any act of violence, unless it was unexpected and deadly, would produce an alarm. The bold way was the only means possible. He rose and straightened himself, and went squelching forward across the oozy ground.

Gregorio heard him and sprang to his feet.

"Who's there?" he asked, softly.

"It is I, Brother," said Tillizini in Italian.

He yawned.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Gregorio, peering forward in the darkness to distinguish the newcomer.

Tillizini's answer was to yawn again loudly and prodigiously, as one who had been recently wakened from his proper sleep and had reluctantly obeyed the summons.

His yawn extended for the half a dozen paces that separated him from the sentry.

Gregorio had no suspicion. His finger mechanically went from the trigger to the butt of the revolver, which now hung loosely at his side.

"What d— ?" he began again.

Then like a bolt from a crossbow Tillizini launched himself at the man's throat. His left hand gripped the revolver, he wrenched it from the man's hand. In that motion he had him by the throat, and the two men were rolling on the ground.

The sentry's yell for help was strangled in his throat.

Marjorie, a dozen yards away, kneeling in the cold marsh with clasped hands and parted lips, heard the sound of the struggle and heard, too, a stifled cry, and then a silence.

A few seconds later Tillizini came back to her.

"You may get up," he said softly, "there is no need for any further concealment."

He gave her his arm and assisted the half-fainting girl the remainder of the journey.

At the water's edge he found the little Canadian canoe that had carried him across the river, and helped her into it. He followed, and, seizing his paddle, with two strokes he sent the little craft swiftly into the stream.