“This,” said Arnold Todhunter, “is the fire-escape.” His tone was that of one who says, “This is our Rembrandt.” Proud proprietorship pervaded his entire atmosphere.  
“Ssh!” said Jane.
 
They stood together in a small back-yard. It seemed to be quite full of things like barrows, paving-stones, old tin cans, and broken crockery. Jane had already tripped over a meat tin and collided with two chicken coops and a dog kennel. She reflected that this was just the sort of back-yard Arnold would find.
 
Everything was very dark. The blackest shadow of all marked the wall that they were to climb. Here and there a lighted window showed, and Jane could see that these windows had rounded parapets jutting out on a level with the sill.
 
Arnold, meanwhile, was tugging at something which seemed to be a short plank.
 
“What on earth?” she whispered.
 
“We shall need it. I’d better go first.”
 
And forthwith he began to climb, clutching the plank with one hand and the iron ladder with the other.
 
Jane let him get a good start, and followed.
 
The ladder was quite easy to climb; it was only when one thought of how immensely far away the skyline had looked, that it seemed as if it would be very uncomfortable to look down instead of up, and to see that horrid little yard equally far below.
 
Jane did look down once, and everything was black and blurred and shadowy. It was odd to be clinging to the side of a house, with the dark all round one, and the steady roar of the London traffic dulled almost to nothingness.
 
The night was very still, and a little cold. Somewhere below amongst the tin cans a cat said, “Grrrwoosh,” not loud, but on a softly inquiring note. The inquiry was instantly answered by a long, piercing wail which travelled rapidly over four octaves, and then dwelt with soulful intensity upon an agonising top note.
 
With a muttered exclamation, Arnold Todhunter dropped his plank. It grazed Jane’s shoulder, and fell among the cats and crockery with a most appalling clatter.
 
Jane shut her eyes, gripped the ladder desperately, and wondered whether she would fall first and be arrested afterwards, or the other way about. Nothing happened. Apparently the neighbourhood was inured to the bombardment of cats.
 
After a moment Jane became aware of Arnold’s boots in close proximity to her head. A wave of fury swept away her giddiness, and she began to descend with a rapidity which surprised herself.
 
Once more they stood in the yard.
 
Once more Arnold groped for his plank.
 
“I’m going up first,” said Jane, in a low tone of rage. “I won’t be guillotined on a public fire-escape. Which floor is it?”
 
 
“The top,” said Arnold sulkily, and without more ado Jane went up the ladder.
 
It was exactly like a rather horrid dream. The ladder was very cold and very gritty, and you climbed, and climbed, and went on climbing without arriving anywhere.
 
Pictures of the Eiffel Tower and New York skyscrapers flitted through Jane’s mind. She also remembered interesting paragraphs about how many million pennies placed on end would reach to the moon. And at long, long last the escape ended at a window-sill with a parapet-enclosed space beneath it.
 
Jane sat down on the window-sill and shut her eyes tight. She had a horrid feeling that the building was rocking a little. After a moment Arnold crawled over the edge of the coping, dragging his plank. He was panting.
 
“This,” he said, with his mouth close to Jane’s ear—“this window only leads to the landing where the lift shaft ends. We’ve got to get across to the next one, which is inside Molloy’s flat. That’s what the plank is for.”
 
“You’re blowing down my neck,” said Jane.
 
Arnold Todhunter felt that he had never met a girl whom he disliked so much. Extraordinary that she should look so like Renata and be so different.
 
He knelt just inside the parapet, and pushed the board slowly out into the dark until it rested on the parapet of the next window.
 
“Will you go first, or shall I?” he whispered.
 
“I will.”
 
Jane felt sure that, if she had to watch Arnold balancing on that plank miles above the ground, she would never be able to cross it herself.
 
The reflection that it was Renata, and not she, who would have to make the descent fortified her considerably. Even so, she never quite knew how she crossed to the other window. It was an affair of clenched teeth and a mind that shut out resolutely everything except the next groping clutch of the hand—the next carefully taken step.
 
She sank against the window-sill and heard Arnold follow her. Just at the end he slipped; he seemed to change his feet, and then with a heavy thud pitched down on the top of Jane.
 
She thought he said “Damn!” and she was quite sure that she said “Idiot!”
 
There was an awful moment while they listened for the fall of the plank, but it held to the coping by a bare half-inch.
 
“Thank goodness I’m not Renata!” said Jane, with heartfelt sincerity. And—
 
“Thank goodness, you’re not!” returned Mr. Todhunter, with equal fervour, and at that moment the window opened.
 
There was a little sobbing gasp, and a girl was clinging to Arnold Todhunter and whispering:
 
“Darling—darling, I thought you’d never come.”
 
Arnold crawled through the open window, and from the pitch-black hall there came the sounds of demonstrative affection.
 
“Good gracious me, there’s no accounting for tastes!” said Jane, under her breath. And she too climbed down into the darkness.
 
 
Arnold appeared to be trying to explain Jane to Renata, whilst Renata alternated between sobs and kisses.
 
Jane lost her temper, suddenly and completely.
 
“For goodness’ sake, you two, come where there’s a light, and where we can talk sense. Every minute you waste is just asking for trouble. What’s that room with the light?”
 
It is difficult to be impressive in a low whisper, but Renata did stop kissing Arnold.
 
“My bedroom,” she said—“I’m supposed to be locked in.”
 
Jane groped in the dark and got Renata by the arm.
 
“Come along in there and talk to me. We’ve got to talk. Arnold can wait outside the window. I don’t want him in the least. You’re going to spend the rest of your life with him in Bolivia, so you needn’t worry. I simply won’t have him whilst we are talking.”
 
Arnold loathed Jane a little more, but Renata allowed herself to be detached from him with a sob.
 
Inside the lighted bedroom the two girls looked at one another in an amazed silence.
 
In height and contour, feature and colouring, the likeness was without a flaw.
 
Facing them was a small wardrobe of painted wood. A narrow panel of looking-glass formed the door. The two figures were reflected in it, and Jane, tossing her hat on to the bed, studied them there with a long, careful scrutiny.
 
The same brown hair, growing in the same odd peak upon the forehead, the same arch to the brow, the same greenish-hazel eyes. Renata’s face was tear-stained, her eyelids red and swollen—“but that’s exactly how I look when I cry,” said Jane. She set her hand by Renata’s hand, her foot by Renata’s foot. The same to a shade.
 
 
The other girl watched her with bewildered eyes.
 
“Speak—say something,” said Jane.
 
“What shall I say?”
 
“Anything—the multiplication table, the days of the week—I want to hear your voice.”
 
“Oh, Jane, what an odd girl you are!” said Renata—“and don’t you think Arnold had better come in? It must be awfully cold out there.”
 
“Presently,” said Jane. “It’s very hard to tell, but I believe that our voices are as much alike as the rest of us.”
 
She opened her bag, and took out The List and a pencil.
 
“Now, write something—I don’t care what.”
 
Renata wrote her own name, and then, after a pause, “It is a fine day.”
 
“Quite like,” said Jane, “but nearly all girls do write the same hand now. I can manage that. Now, tell me, where were you at school?”
 
“Miss Bazing’s, Ilfracombe.”
 
“When did you leave?”
 
“Two months ago.”
 
“Have you been in America?”
 
“Not since I was five.”
 
“Anywhere else out of England?”
 
“No.”
 
“What languages do you know?”
 
“French—I’m not good at it.”
 
“Well, that’s that. Now, Arnold tells me you heard them say you were to go to Luttrell Marches?”
 
Renata looked terrified.
 
“Yes, yes, I did.”
 
 
“You’re not supposed to know? They haven’t told you officially?”
 
“No—no, they haven’t told me anything.”
 
“Your father goes away to-morrow. Have they told you that?”
 
“I can’t remember,” said Renata, bursting into tears. “Oh, Jane, you don’t know what it’s like!—to be locked in here—to have them come and ask questions until I don’t know what I’m saying—and to know, to know all the time that if I make one slip I’m lost.”
 
“Yes, yes, but it’s going to be all right,” said Jane.
 
“I can’t sleep,” sobbed Renata, “and I can’t eat.” She held up her wrist and looked at it with interest. “I’ve got ever so much thinner.”
 
Jane could have slapped her. She reflected with thankfulness that Bolivia was a good long way off.
 
“Now, look here,” she said, “you talk about ‘they’—who are ‘they’?”
 
“There’s a man in a fur coat,” faltered Renata—“that is to say, he generally has on a fur coat; he always seems to be cold. He’s the worst; I don’t know his name, but they call him Number Two. He’s English. Then there’s Number Four. He’s a foreigner of some sort, and he’s dreadful—dreadful. I think—I think”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“my father is Number Three.” Then almost inaudibly, “Number One is at Luttrell Marches. It’s Number One who will decide about me—about me. Oh, Jane, I’m so dreadfully frightened!”
 
Renata’s eyes, wide and terrified, stared past Jane into vacancy.
 
“You needn’t be in the least frightened; you’re going to Bolivia,” said Jane briskly.
 
“I must tell some one,” said Renata, still in that whispering voice—still staring. “I didn’t tell them, I wouldn’t tell them, but I must tell some one. Jane, I must tell you what I heard.”
 
Quick as lightning Jane put her hand over the other girl’s mouth.
 
“Wait!” she said, and in the pause that followed two things stood out in her mind clear and sharp. If Renata told her secret, Jane’s danger would be doubled. If Renata did not tell it, the crime these men were planning might ripen undisturbed. Jane had a high courage, but she hesitated.
 
Her hand dropped slowly to her side. She saw Renata’s mouth open protestingly, and there came on her a wild impulse to stave things off, to have time, just a little time before she let that secret in.
 
“We’ve got to change clothes,” she said. “Quick, give me that skirt and take mine. Yes, put on the coat, and I’ll give you my shoes, too. My hat’s on the bed; you’d better put it on.”
 
Renata obeyed. A resentful feeling of being hustled, ordered about, treated like a child, was upon her; but Jane moved and spoke so quickly, and seemed so sure of herself, that there seemed no opening for protest. She thought Jane’s blue serge shabby and old fashioned—not nearly as nice as her own—and Jane’s shoes were terribly worn and needed mending.
 
“Now, listen,” said Jane.
 
“If Arnold likes to go to my rooms and pay up two weeks’ rent, he can get my box and all my other clothes for you. There’s not very much, but it’ll be better than nothing. I’ll write a line for him to take, and put the address on it. And will you please remember now and from henceforth that you are Jane Renata Smith, and not Renata Jane Molloy?”
 
 
Jane was scribbling a couple of lines as she spoke, and as she turned and gave the paper into Renata’s hand, she knew that she must decide now. The moment of grace was up, and whether she bade Renata speak or be silent, there could be no drawing back.
 
“What were you going to tell me?” she said.
 
Renata stood silent for a long minute. She was twisting and turning the slip of paper which Jane had given her. She looked down at her twisting fingers; her breath began to come more quickly. Then with great suddenness she pushed the note into her pocket, and caught at Jane with both hands.
 
“Yes, I must tell you—I must. It will be coming nearer all the time, and I must tell some one, or I shall go mad.”
 
“Tell me, then,” said Jane. “You were walking in your sleep, and you opened the door and heard—what did you hear?”
 
Jane’s eyes were bright and steady, her face set. She had taken her decision, and her courage rose to meet an unknown shock.
 
“I was walking in my sleep,” repeated Renata, in a low, faltering voice, “and I opened the door, and I heard——”
 
“What did you hear?”
 
“There was a screen in front of me, and just beyond the screen a man talking. I heard—oh, Jane, I heard every single word he said! I can’t forget one of them—if I could, if I only could!”
 
“What did you hear?” said Jane firmly.
 
 
Renata’s grip became desperate. She leant forward until her lips touched Jane’s ear. In a voice that was only a breath, she gave word for word, sentence by sentence, the speech in which Number Four had proclaimed the death sentence of the civilised world. It was just a bald transcript like the whisper of a phonograph record, as if the words and sentences had been stamped on an inanimate plate by some recording machinery, to be released again with utter regularity and correctness.
 
Every vestige of colour left Jane’s face as she listened. Only her eyes remained bright and steady. Something seemed to knock at her heart. Renata’s last mechanical repetition died away, and with a sob of relief she flung her arms round Jane.
 
“Oh, Jane, I do hope they won’t kill you! Oh, I do hope they won’t!”
 
“So do I,” said Jane.
 
She detached herself from Renata, and as she did so, both girls heard the same thing—from beyond the two closed doors the groan and grind of the lift machinery in motion.
 
“They’ve come back,” said Renata, in a whisper of terror.
 
Jane’s hand was on the electric-light switch before the words had left Renata’s lips.
 
As darkness sprang upon the room she had the door open. Her grip was on Renata’s wrist, her arm about Renata’s waist, and they were in the hall. It seemed pitch black at first, with a gloom that pressed upon their eyes and confused the sense of direction.
 
The lift rose with a steady rumble.
 
Then, as Jane stared before her, the oblong of the window sprang into view. She took a step forward and felt Renata’s head against her shoulder.
 
 
“I’m going to faint,” came in a gasp.
 
“Then you’ll never see Arnold again. Do you want to be caught like this?”
 
“Jane, I can’t.”
 
Jane dragged her on.
 
“Renata, you rabbit!—if they don’t kill you, I will. Faint in Bolivia as much as you like, but I forbid you to do it here.”
 
“Oh, Jane!”
 
Jane’s arm felt the weight of a limp, sagging figure, but they had reached the window. From the sill Arnold bent, listening anxiously.
 
“Quick!” gasped Jane.
 
And, as his arm relieved the strain, she pinched Renata with all her might. There was a sob—a gasp—Arnold lifted, Jane pushed, and somehow the thing was done. Arnold and Renata were outside, crouched down between the parapet and the window, whilst Jane leaned panting against the jamb.
 
As the lift stopped with a jerk, her rigid fingers drew the window down and fastened it. Now, horribly loud, the clang of the iron gate. Steps outside—voices—the grate of a key in the lock.
 
Jane knew now what Renata had felt. Easy, so easy to yield to this paralysis of terror, and to stand rooted there until they came! With all her might she pushed the temptation from her and roused to action.
 
Thank Heaven, she had had no time to put on Renata’s shoes!
 
After the first movement strength and swiftness came to her. She was across the hall without a sound. The bedroom door closed upon her. As it did so, the door of the flat swung wide.