- and...

She flung herself against Gypsy Nan's door, stumbled in, and,
closing it, heard Rorke just swinging around the corner. Had he
seen her? She didn't know. She was panting, gasping for her
breath. It seemed as though her lungs would burst. She held
her hand tightly to her bosom as she made for the stairs - she
mustn't make any noise - they mustn't hear her breathing like that
- they - they mustn't hear her going up the stairs.

How dark it was! If she could only see - so that she would be sure
not to stumble! She couldn't go fast now - she would make a noise
if she did. Stair after stair she climbed stealthily. Perhaps she
was safe now - it had taken her a long time to get up here to the
second floor, and there wasn't any sound yet from the street below.

And now she mounted the short, ladder-like steps to the attic, and,
feeling with her hand for the crack in the flooring under the
partition, reached in for the key. As her fingers closed upon it,
she choked back a cry. Some one had been here! A piece of paper
was wrapped around the key. What did it mean? What did all these
strange, yes, sinister, things that had happened to-night mean?
How had Rorke known that a robbery was to be committed at Skarbolov's?
Who was that man who had effected her escape, and who, she knew now,
was no more drunk than she was? Fast, quick, piling one upon the
other, the questions raced through her mind.

She fought them back. There was no time for speculation now! There
was only one question that mattered: Was she safe?