But no drop of its contents ever touched them, for in that instant
Pierre vaulted the intervening table and hurled himself upon her. The
flask flew from her hand and spun across the room, falling she knew not
where; while she herself was caught in the man's arms and held in a grip
like iron.
She struggled fiercely to free herself, but for many seconds she
struggled in vain. Then, just as her strength was beginning to leave
her, he abruptly set her free.
"Come!" he said. "There is no time for childish folly. Find a cloak, and
we will go."
His tone was peremptory, but it held no anger. Turning from her, he
walked deliberately away into the outer room.
She sank back trembling against the wall, nearer to collapse than she
had ever been before. But the momentary respite had its effect, and
instinctively she began to gather herself together for fresh effort. He
had wrested her deliverance from her, but she would never accept what he
offered in exchange. She would never escape with his man. She would
sooner--yes, a thousand times sooner--face the mercy of the mob.
"Mademoiselle Stephanie!" Impatiently his voice came to her from the
farther room. "Are you coming, or am I to fetch you?"
She did not answer. A sudden wild idea had formed in her brain. If she
could slip past him--if she could reach the outer door--he would never
overtake her on the corridor.
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