"_Jimmie!_"

It seemed to quiver, low-breathed, through the darkness--his name. His
name! Was he bereft of all his senses! His name! Here in this horrible
murder hole! Was he indeed mad with his imaginings, with these voices
that had been whispering, and laughing, and jeering at him out of the
blackness! And, absurdly, it had seemed this time that it was the
Tocsin's voice!

"Jimmie--quick! On the floor under the window!"

He whirled like a flash. Mistake! Imaginings! No! It _was_ the Tocsin!
It was her voice! The gleam of his flashlight cut the black, and,
leaping across the room, played upon the small, narrow, oblong
window--it was from there the voice had come. But it was only black and
empty there. And around the room his flashlight swept, and it was black
and empty there, too--except for a square, white object upon the floor
below the window. She was gone.

And it was like a half sob that came from Jimmie Dale's lips.

"Gone!" he whispered miserably. "Gone!"

Why had she gone like that? Why had she not waited--just for a moment,
just for the single instant, if he could have had no more, that he would
have given his life to have? And the answer was in his soul. He knew,
and he, knew that she, too, knew, that it would not have been moment or
an instant--that he would never have let her go again. And to follow
her? He shook his head. By the time he had climbed out of the window,