Dawson stood rigid, his heart thumping. The darkness seemed to surge
around him with menaces and dangers. The splashing feet were nearer,
coming up on their right, and once some metal gear clinked as its
wearer scraped against the wall. He could smell men, as he remembered
afterwards. The woman beside him retained her hold on his arm, and
remained motionless till it seemed that the advancing men must run
into them.

"Come quietly," she whispered at length, putting warm lips to his
ear. Her hand dropped along his arm till she grasped his fingers. She
led him swiftly away from the place, having waited till the police
should be so near that the noise they made would drown their own
retreat.

On they went, then, as before, swishing through the foulness
underfoot, and without speaking. Only at times the woman's hold on
his hand would tighten, and, meeting with no response, would slacken
again, and she would draw him on ever more quickly.

"Where are we going?" he ventured to ask.

"We are escaping," she answered, with a brief tinkle of laughter. "If
you knew from what we are escaping, you would not care where. But
hurry, always!"

Soon, however, she paused, still holding his hand. Again they heard
footsteps, and this time the woman turned to him desperately.

"There is a door near by," she breathed. "We must find it, or----"
again the unspoken word. "Feel always along the wall there.