"Yes," he admitted, with the imploring hands again thrust out towards her. "I knew, and I came."
She was breathing more quickly by this time and a touch of colour had come to either cheek.
"Then you must go!" was her summary command.
The Neapolitan stood with his head bowed. "I can not," he said with almost a moan.
Maura Lambert took a step nearer him and was about to speak when the telephone-bell on the dressing-table shrilled out a sudden alarm. She crossed to the table and took up the receiver, cupping the bell with her hand. She sat listening, poured a quick torrent of French into the 'phone and then sat listening again, interrupting with an intent monosyllable or two. Then she hung up the receiver and swung about on Morello.
"Listen," she said sharply. "There's been trouble. Father was shadowed and held up in Central Park. They struck him and took everything. He pretended to be unconscious until the chance came, then he slipped out of the cab and got away in the Park. He's just sent word to Cherry and Fontana!"
She pressed her hands against her side with a gesture of despair, oblivious for the moment of Morello and his presence. "It's the same thing over again—the same thing over!"
"It will always be the same thing over, now," Morello reminded her.
"We can't stay here," she said, still oblivious of him, still unconscious of the luminous seal-brown eyes watching her.
"You will have to come with me," he said.
