“Keep your hands off.  Don’t you say you killed him.  What right have you to take his life, I’d like to know!  Don’t let me hear you say that again—­don’t you dare!  Just remember that killing him is my business.  You sha’n’t try to rob me—­it’s my right!” She leaned forward threateningly.

A hand closed over her wrist.  The woman screamed.

“Hold on, Mother, none of that.”  The young man, still retaining his hold, came from behind the seat and stood over her.

She began to whimper and tremble.  “Don’t hit me,” she begged pitifully.  “Don’t hit me, and I’ll be good, indeed, I will.”

Mrs. Marteen had taken no notice of her providential protector.  Her head was sunk upon her breast and her hands hung limp in her lap.

The young man whistled twice, never relaxing his hold.  A moment later a form detached itself from the group before the door of the house opposite, crossed the street and joined them quickly, yet with no impression of hurry.

“What’s up?” the newcomer asked quietly.

“Here, take hold.  Don’t let her get away from you.”  With a glance round, he took a hypodermic needle from hi” pocket, and a quick prick in the wrist instantly quieted the struggling, captive.  “Get a cab,” he ordered, “and bring her over to my rooms.  The utmost importance—­not a sound to anybody.  I’ve got my job cut out for me—­no police in this, mind.”

He turned, his manner all gentleness.  “Mrs. Marteen—­Mrs. Marteen,” he repeated.  She raised her head slightly.  “Will you come with me?  My name is Brencherly, and Mr. Gard sent me for you.  Come.”

She rose obediently.  The name he had spoken seemed to inspire confidence, trust and peace, like a word of power; but her limbs refused to move, and she sank back again.  Brencherly took her unresisting hand in his, felt her pulse and shook his head.

“Long!” he called.  “Get a cab.  I’ll take Mrs. Marteen; stop somewhere and send a taxi back for you; it might look queer to see two of us with unconscious patients.”

When his subordinate turned to go, Brencherly leaned toward the drugged woman, took the bundle from her listless hands and rapidly examined its contents.  A coarse nightdress, a black waist and a worn and ragged empty wallet rewarded his search.  He tied them up again, put the package in its place and turned once more to Mrs. Marteen.  “She’s a mighty sick woman,” he murmured.  “Well, it’s home for hers, and then me for the old man.”

A taxi drove up, and his assistant descended.  With his help Brencherly half supported, half carried his charge to the curb.

Directing the chauffeur to stop at a nearby hotel before proceeding to Mrs. Marteen’s apartment, he climbed in beside the patient, and as the machine gathered headway, murmured a fervent “Thank God!”

Mrs. Marteen lay back upon the cushioned seat inert and passive.  In the flash of each passing street-light her face showed waxen pale, a cameo against the dark background; so drawn and pinched were her features, that Brencherly, in panic, seized her pulse, in order to assure himself that life had not already fled.  Obedient to his orders the cab ran up to an hotel entrance, and Brencherly, leaning out, called the starter.