"What's that?" he asked. "Who is it they want?"
"Murdoch! Murdoch!" was shouted again. "Let's ha' a word wi' Murdoch! We lads ha' summat to say to him!"
"It is not I they want," he said. "It is Murdoch. It is not I at all!"
She dashed the window-curtain aside and turned on him. He was stunned by the mere sight of her face. Every drop of blood seemed driven from it.
"You are a coward!" she cried, panting. "A coward! It is a relief to you!"
He stood staring at her.
"A—a relief!" he stammered. "I—don't understand you. What is the matter?"
She had recovered herself almost before he had begun to speak. It was over in a second. He had not had time to realize the situation before she was moving toward the window.
"They shall see me," she said. "Let us see what they will have to say to me."
He would have stopped her, but she did not pay the slightest attention to his exclamation. The window was a French one, opening upon a terrace. She flung it backward, and stepped out and stood before the rioters.
For a second there was not a sound.
They had been expecting to see a man,—perhaps Ffrench, perhaps Murdoch, perhaps even a representative of the small police force, looking as if he felt himself one too many in the gathering, or not quite enough,—and here was simply a tall young woman in a dazzling dress of some rich white stuff, and with something sparkling upon her hands and arms and in her high-dressed blonde hair.
