The smile on Jimmie Dale’s lips was gone, for his lips now had closed together in a tight, drawn line.  The lights in the rest of the house, as witness the reception hall, were in order.  This was no accident!  Silent, motionless, he stood there, listening.  Was he trapped at last—­in his own house!  By whom?  The police?  The thugs of the underworld?  It made little difference—­the end would differ only in the method by which it was attained!  What was that!  Was there a slight stir, a movement at the lower end of the room—­or was it his imagination?  His hand fell from the electric-light switch to the doorknob behind his back.  Slowly, without a sound, it began to turn under his slim, tapering fingers, whose deft, sensitive touch had made him known and feared as the master cracksman of them all; and, as noiselessly, the door began to open.

It was like a duel—­a duel of silence.  What was the intruder, whoever he might be, waiting for?  The abortive click of the electric-light switch, to say nothing of the opening of the door when he had entered, was evidence enough that he was there.  Was the other trying to place him exactly through the darkness to make sure of his attack!  The door was open now.  And suddenly Jimmie Dale laughed easily aloud—­and on the instant shifted his position.

“Well?” inquired Jimmie Dale coolly from the other side of the threshold.

It seemed like a long-drawn sigh fluttering through the room, a gasp of relief—­and then the blood was pounding madly at his temples, and he was back in the room again, the door closed once more behind him.

“Oh, Jimmie—­why didn’t you speak?  I had to be sure that it was you.”

It was her voice!  Hers!  The Tocsin!  Here!  She was here—­here in his house!

“You!” he cried.  “You—­here!” He was pressing the electric-light switch frantically, again and again.

Her voice came out of the darkness from across the room: 

“Why are you doing that, Jimmie?  You know already that I have turned off the lights.”

“At the sockets—­of course!” He laughed out the words almost hysterically.  “Your face—­I have never seen your face, you know.”  He was moving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk.

There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking his way.

“No,” she said, in a low voice; “you must not light that lamp.”

He laughed again, shortly, fiercely now.  She was close to him, his hands reached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch, swept her toward him.

“Jimmie—­Jimmie—­are you mad!” she breathed.

Mad!  Yes—­he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration he had ever known.  He found his voice with an effort.

“These months and years that I have tried until my soul was sick to find you!” he cried out.  “And you are here now!  Your face—­I must see your face!”