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 both of them; I caught at the straw that somehow he might save me, and I reviewed, if not my entire life, yet several significant epochs of it; and I got to thinking about Doris.

She was in with the worst, I was now sure; she not only had had me hit on the head, when I came to see her, but she'd worked in that scheme to gas Sencort and his guests. I kept thinking about her and the dances we'd had together at the Flamingo Feather and our dinner on the train when I'd had the best time ever in life.

Meanwhile I was listening and I began to realize that there was a soft, regular sound separate from and nearer than those which reached me through the door. It was the zephyr of breath. Some one was in the closet with me.

"Hello," I whispered. "Who's here?"

A hand touched my side and I seized it,—a small, firm hand mighty like Doris's.

"Hello; who're you?" I asked.

"Hello, Steve," she said. Doris! By Christopher, Doris!

"Anybody else in here?" I asked. That sounds stupider now than at the time; for after this, I was ready for anything.

"No," she said.