Mr. Hoopdriver watched the door shut. He had intended to step out
into the middle of the room, fold his arms and say, "You are in
trouble. I am a Friend. Trust me." Instead of which he stood
panting and then spoke with sudden familiarity, hastily,
guiltily: "Look here. I don't know what the juice is up, but I
think there's something wrong. Excuse my intruding--if it isn't
so. I'll do anything you like to help you out of the scrape--if
you're in one. That's my meaning, I believe. What can I do? I
would do anything to help you."

Her brow puckered, as she watched him make, with infinite
emotion, this remarkable speech. "YOU!" she said. She was
tumultuously weighing possibilities in her mind, and he had
scarcely ceased when she had made her resolve.

She stepped a pace forward. "You are a gentleman," she said.

"Yes," said Mr. Hoopdriver.

"Can I trust you?"

She did not wait for his assurance. "I must leave this hotel at
once. Come here."

She took his arm and led him to the window.

"You can just see the gate. It is still open. Through that are
our bicycles. Go down, get them out, and I will come down to you.
Dare you?