"No, damn it!" the first man cried, in protest; but his companion cursed him, swinging Faith between them.
"You keep out of this!" he cried savagely. "I'll make her talk inside a minute!" And his grip shut down.
This time there was no bluff. Faith realized the primitive savagery of the hands that were laid on her. With the knowledge she fought wildly, like a cornered animal. For a moment the other man was forgotten. Anger and fear lent her strength. She caught at the handkerchief which hid her assailant's face, and as he loosed one hand to catch her wrist, she broke away, tearing the cloth with her. She reeled back, gasping, disheveled, her dress torn at the throat, her hair bursting from confining pins falling on her shoulders.
"Blake!" she cried hoarsely. "Blake French!"
Stripped of his disguise, Blake French faced her, lowering, ferocious—but suddenly afraid.
"I wasn't going to hurt you," he said.
Her hands went to her throat.
"To hurt me? You liar! You utter brute! Is that what you will tell my husband?"
Blake's face contorted. He took a step forward.
"You'll tell him, will you?"