ingly, for my teeth were doing a fox-trot of pure panic by this time. "For killing that man?"
Wendy snorted aloud as he caught up the club-bag.
"That man's not dead," he calmly announced. "But we may be, if we're not out of this house pretty soon!"
I felt a little thrill, a wayward little thrill of something that was both pride and pleasure, at hearing him bracket me with himself in even a common danger. It wasn't the mere thought of escape as I watched him unlatch the door, that brought a wave of relief through all my tired body. It was more the thought of having some one else beside me, of having at least something which might be construed as a confederate, of knowing that I was no longer acting entirely alone in all that tangled maze.
My Hero-Man opened the street door and peered out. Then he motioned for me to follow him.
But I couldn't help glancing back over my shoulder, in the hope of beholding some reassuring sign of life from the inert Pinky McClone. Instead of seeing Pinky McClone, however, I saw an altogether different figure. It was a ghost-like figure staring down from the gloom at the head of the wide stair-way. It stared down with a look of wistful trouble
