The ladies looked at one another. Even in that awful moment, the becoming, the seemly, the dignified had its claims. The window was narrow: the ladder—Mary Travers had gone to look at it—was steep: a little, curious, excited crowd was gathering below. Deane saw their hesitation. He rushed to the door and cautiously opened it. The thing was there! Across the very entrance—that villainous oblong case! And from below came a shriek—it was Madame’s voice, and a cry of “Quick! quick!”
“This,” said the General firmly (he had been through the Mutiny), “is not a time for punctilio. Excuse me,” and he lifted Lady Deane in his stalwart arms and bore her toward the window.
With a distant reminiscence of the ball room, Arthur Laing approached Miss Bussey, murmuring “May I have the—” and with a mighty effort swung the good lady from the ground. She clutched his cravat wildly, crying “Save me!”
Mary Travers was calmness itself. With quiet mien and unfaltering voice, she laid her hand on Charlie’s arm and murmured:
“I am ready, Charlie.”
At the same moment John Ashforth, the light of heroism in his eye, whispered to Dora, “You must trust yourself implicitly to me.”
“Quick, quick!” cried Deane, “or it’s all up with you. Quick, Ashforth! Quick, Charlie, quick, man!”
There was one more pause. Mary’s hand pressed a little harder. John’s arm was advancing towards Dora’s waist. Sir Roger looked on with apparent impatience.
“Are you never going?” he called. “Must I——”
Suddenly a loud cry rang out. It came from Miss Bellairs.