It was the molasses pie that stuck in his mind.  There was no time to make another.  Further, the thought of depredators hanging about disturbed him.  That shack of his was full of Aladdin treasures, delivered by the summoned genii of the Great Book.  Though it was secured by Little Guardian locks and fortified with the Scarem Buzz alarm, he did not feel sure of it.  He decided to sleep there that night with his .45-caliber Sure-shot revolver.  Let them come again; he’d give ’em a lesson!  On second thought, he rebaited the window-ledge with a can of Special Juicy Apricot Preserve.  At ten o’clock he turned in, determined to sleep lightly, and immediately plunged into fathomless depths of unconsciousness, lulled by a singing wind and the drone of the rain.

A light, flashing across his eyes, awakened him.  For a moment he lay, dazed, confused by the gentle and unfamiliar oscillations of his hammock.  Another flicker of light and a rumble of thunder brought him to his full senses.  The rain had degenerated into a casual drizzle and the wind had withdrawn into the higher areas.  He heard some one moving outside.

Very quietly he reached out to the stand at his elbow, got his revolver and his flashlight, and slipped to the floor.  The malefactor without was approaching the window.  Another flash of lightning would have revealed much to Banneker had he not been crouching close under the sill, on the inside, so that the radiance of his light, when he found the button, should not expose him to a straight shot.

A hand fumbled at the open window.  Finger on trigger, Banneker held up his flashlight in his left hand and irradiated the spot.  He saw the hand, groping, and on one of its fingers something which returned a more brilliant gleam than the electric ray.  In his crass amazement, the agent straightened up, a full mark for murder, staring at a diamond-and-ruby ring set upon a short, delicate finger.

No sound came from outside.  But the hand became instantly tense.  It fell upon the sill and clutched it so hard that the knuckles stood out, white, strained and garish.  Banneker’s own strong hand descended upon the wrist.  A voice said softly and tremulously: 

“Please!”

The appeal went straight to Banneker’s heart and quivered there, like a soft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream.

“Who are you?” he asked, and the voice said: 

“Don’t hurt me.”

“Why should I?” returned Banneker stupidly.

“Some one did,” said the voice.

“Who?” he demanded fiercely.

“Won’t you let me go?” pleaded the voice.

In the shock of his discovery he had released the flash-lever so that this colloquy passed in darkness.  Now he pressed it.  A girlish figure was revealed, one protective arm thrown across the eyes.

“Don’t strike me,” said the girl again, and again Banneker’s heart was shaken within him by such tremors as the crisis of some deadly fear might cause.