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 shoulder and shaking her almost roughly. "My God, Cynthia," he begged, "don't cry."

He had called her by that name again; and Ruth knew that, not her appeal, but her semblance in her emotion to Cynthia, had overcome him for the moment.

"I'm not going to cry," Ruth said. "But"

He stopped her brusquely. He seemed afraid, indeed, to let her go on. "Whether I've got to bring you to the army authorities and give you over at once under arrest," he said coldly, "is up to you. If you agree to go with me quietly—and keep your agreement—I'll take you along myself."

"Where?" Ruth asked.

"I know some people, whom I can trust and who can take you in charge till I can talk to Hull. He's the only reference you care to give?"

"Yes," she said.

"If he stands for you, that won't mean anything to me, I might as well tell you," Byrne returned. "You've probably got him fooled; you could do it, all right, I guess."

"Then what's the use in your sending for him?"

"Oh; you think now there's none? It was your idea, not mine."

"I'll go with you quietly to your friends," Ruth decided, ending this argument. "I'll understand that you're going to communicate with Gerry Hull about me."

She arose and Byrne seized her arm firmly. He blew out the candle and, still clasping her, he groped his way to the door. Some one stepped in the rubbish on the other side. They had been conscious, during their stay