A hand fumbled at the open window. Finger on trigger, Banneker held up
his flashlight in his left hand and irradiated the spot. He saw the
hand, groping, and on one of its fingers something which returned a more
brilliant gleam than the electric ray. In his crass amazement, the agent
straightened up, a full mark for murder, staring at a diamond-and-ruby
ring set upon a short, delicate finger.

No sound came from outside. But the hand became instantly tense. It fell
upon the sill and clutched it so hard that the knuckles stood out,
white, strained and garish. Banneker's own strong hand descended upon
the wrist. A voice said softly and tremulously:

"Please!"

The appeal went straight to Banneker's heart and quivered there, like a
soft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the voice said:

"Don't hurt me."

"Why should I?" returned Banneker stupidly.

"Some one did," said the voice.

"Who?" he demanded fiercely.

"Won't you let me go?" pleaded the voice.

In the shock of his discovery he had released the flash-lever so that