Clancy knew when she was beaten, knew, at least, when the first round had gone against her. She did the one thing that rendered uncertain the mental attitudes of her captors. She walked coolly to a chair and sat.
Grannis, expecting to see a girl reduced by fright to hysteria, eyed her bewilderedly. He had intended to be calm, intending, by calm, to convince Clancy that her danger was the greater. Now he lapsed, at the start, into nervous irritation, the most certain sign of indecision.
"Pretty cool about it, Miss Deane, aren't you?"
Clancy knew, somehow, that her cool desperation had given her, in some inexplicable fashion, an equally inexplicable advantage.
"Why not?" she asked.
Grannis' sallow face reddened.
"Will you feel that way when you see a policeman?" he demanded.
"You talked about policemen yesterday," said Clancy. "Don't talk about them to-day. I want to see Mr. Zenda," she added.
Weber interjected himself into the scene.
"I suppose you do. But you see, Florine, my little dear, we're seeing you first. And you're seeing us first."