silence.

She had fallen on her knees and was cowering against the wall, had lost
consciousness probably for a minute or two. Then she heard that pleasant
laugh again and the soft drawl of the English tongue.

"I love to see those beggars scuttling off, like so many rats to their
burrows, don't you, Ffoulkes?"

"They didn't put up much fight, the cowards!" came from another voice,
also in English. "A dozen of them against this wretched woman. What had
best be done with her?"

"I'll see to her," rejoined the first speaker. "You and Tony had best
find the others. Tell them I shall be round directly."

It all seemed like a dream. The woman dared not open her eyes lest
reality--hideous and brutal--once more confronted her. Then all at once
she felt that her poor, weak body, encircled by strong arms, was lifted
off the ground, and that she was being carried down the street, away
from the light projected by the lanthorn overhead, into the sheltering
darkness of a yawning porte cochere. But she was not then fully
conscious.

II

When she reopened her eyes she was in what appeared to be the lodge of a
concierge. She was lying on a horsehair sofa. There was a sense of
warmth and of security around her. No wonder that it still seemed like a
dream. Before her stood a man, tall and straight, surely a being from