A look of guile crept into her studious eyes.
"You will permit that?" she asked.
"I invite it," was my answer.
"Then I shall call for help."
"Only from the police."
"Yes; I shall call for help," she repeated, crossing to the telephone.
I leaned forward as she stood in front of it. I caught her bare arm, in my left hand, just below the elbow. As I drew it backward it brought her body against mine, pinning her other arm down close against my side.
The thing was repugnant to me, but it was necessary. As I pinioned her there, writhing and panting, I deliberately thrust my right hand into the open bosom of her gown. I was dimly conscious of a faint aura of perfume, of a sense of warmth behind the soft and lace-fringed corsage. But it was the key itself that redeemed the rude assault and brought a gasp of relief to my lips—the huge brass key, as big as an egg beater.
"Lâche!" I heard gasped into my ear.
The woman staggered to a chair, white to the lips; and for a moment or two I thought she was going to faint.