that stood on Mr. Christopher Sorrell's desk. A stolen photograph—too.
"Mr. Sorrell is just a little better."
"I'm very glad to hear it, Miss."
When the door had closed she found Stephen Sorrell's eyes fixed upon her.
"Did you mean that,—what you said?"
She gave him a grave movement of the head.
"Two of us pulling,—you and I. He understands."
And then she went close to him with the air of invoking a comrade.
"You don't grudge me that, do you? I—should never take him away from you."
"My dear," he said, putting out his hand; "if he lives, I want his job to live. That—and a comrade—make a man's happiness."
She came to the door of No. 107 in the grey of a winter dawn. The very pallor of her tired face seemed to be triumphing over the mere weariness of the flesh. She had a latchkey with her, and with steady and untrembling hand she slipped it into the keyhole. Someone was scrubbing the floor. She went past the inquisitive yet crouching figure into the dining-room where Sorrell was sitting in front of the fire. He was asleep, his head sagging forward, his hands on the arms of the chair.
She stood near and looked down at him with a little smile of compassion, and with some of her old mischief trembling in the corners of her mouth. The old gladiator, white headed, overcome by sleep and by the suspense of waiting! She could picture his head rising with a jerk, and his eyes challenging hers. Ave, Cæsar!
She touched his shoulder.
He came to life, just as she had pictured it, with a jerk of the head, and a deep, harsh drawn breath. His eyes were both hard and eager.
"Well?"
"Six hours' sleep."
"I?"
