He saw the woman smiling, and caught at his calmness. There was
comprehension in her eyes, and to be understood is so often to be
despised. "You must come too," he added, on an impulse, and stopped,
appalled by the idea.

"To the ship?" she cried and laughed. "Oh, la la! But no! Still, we
must go from here. The police will be here any minute, and if they
find you----" She left it unsaid, and the gap was ominous.

The police! To mention them was to touch all that was conventional,
suburban, and second-class in Dawson. He itched to be gone. A picture
of Vine Street police court and a curtly aloof magistrate flashed
across his mind, and a reminiscence of evening paper headlines, and
his mind fermented hysterically.

The woman put back her knife in some secret recess of her clothes,
and opened the door cautiously. "Now!" she said, but paused, and came
back. She went to the picture of the Virgin and turned its face to
the wall. "One should not forget respect," she observed
apologetically. "These things are remembered. Now come."

No sooner were they in the gloomy alley outside than the neighborhood
of others was known to them. There was a sound of many feet ploughing
in the mud, and a suppressed voice gave a short order. The woman
stopped and caught Dawson's arm.

"Hush!" she whispered. "It is the police. They have come for the men.
They will be on both sides of us. Wait and listen."