At the window, he paused and drew a long, slow breath. Down the ledge from him was a white face and two terrified eyes. Malone spoke very softly and easily.

“Don’t be afraid. You can get back here all right. Just creep along the ledge and keep your hands on the wall, and keep looking at me.”

The dark figure stirred. She was not more than a few inches beyond the reach of his arm, but he knew better than to hold out a hand to her, yet.

“There’s nothing to fear. Even if you should fall, they’ll catch you with the nets. The worst that can happen to you is a skinned knee and a few bruises.” Malone crossed his fingers for the bare-faced lie. “You’re as safe as if you were in your own bed.” It was the same tone he’d used innumerable times to nervous witnesses.

It was a full minute before the girl began to move, but when she did, it was in the direction of the window.

“Come on now,” the little lawyer coaxed. “It’s not so far. Only a bit of a ways now. Take it easy.”

She managed about a foot and a half along the ledge, and stopped. He could see her face, and the terror on it, clearly now.

“You won’t fall,” Malone said. It was an almost heartbreaking effort to keep from reaching a hand to her.

Inside the room, and down on the sidewalk, the spectators were silent and breathless.

For just a moment it seemed to Malone that she’d smiled at him. No, it hadn’t been a smile, just a relaxation of those frozen muscles around her mouth. How long had she been crouching on that ledge? He didn’t dare guess.

Nor did he dare take his eyes from her face and look down, for fear her gaze would turn with his.

Inch by inch she moved toward the waiting window. Only a few feet away she hesitated, started to look down, and turned a shade more pale.

“For Pete’s sake, hurry up,” Malone said crossly. “It’s colder than a Scandinavian Hell with this window open.”

That did it. She actually did smile, and managed the last bit of window ledge, twenty-two stories up from the ground, like a little girl sliding on a cellar door. Finally Malone lifted her over the sill, and Klutchetsky, moving fast and breathing hard, slammed the window shut and locked it.

The eminent psychiatrist sank down on the nearest chair, his face a mottled gray. Klutchetsky and the uniformed cop stood glaring at her.

“You’re a wicked, wicked girl,” the minister began.

“Shut up,” Malone told him absent-mindedly. He looked closely at the girl, who stood clutching the edge of the window frame for support.