The door of the alcove-room was thrown open, and Luisa appeared in her dressing-gown, with flowing hair, and bearing a candle in her hand. At the same moment a gendarme leaned over the banisters on the upper floor, and said that the servant had nearly fainted away, and could not come down. The detective ordered him to leave his companion with the woman, and to descend. Then he saluted the lady, who did not reply. In the hope that Franco had fled, she had hastened to leave the room in order to detain and, if possible, deceive the police. She now saw her husband and shuddered, her heart beating wildly, but she composed herself at once.
The detective stepped forward to enter the room. "No!" Franco exclaimed. "Some one is ill in there." Luisa clutched the handle of the closed door, looking the man straight in the face.
"Who is ill?" asked the detective.
"A little girl."
"Well, what harm do you suppose we shall do her?"
"Pardon me," said Luisa almost defiantly, and giving the handle a nervous shake, "must you all go in?"
"All of us."
At the sound of voices and the rattling of the door-handle little Maria had begun to cry in a weary and forlorn voice that was heart-rending.
"Luisa," said Franco, "let these gentlemen do their work."
The detective was a fashionably-dressed young man, with a refined but cruel face. He threw Franco a sinister glance. "Obey your husband, Signora," said he, glad of an opportunity to retaliate. "I think he is prudent."