“You will not let go? Then you shall have this!”
Her hand came out from the folds of her dress, it swept through the air, something bright glinted in the gaslight.
She had struck straight at Frank Merriwell’s heart with a dagger!
But the boy was watching her with the eyes of a hawk, and he had taken note of the movement when that hand disappeared from view. He saw it flash forth with the knife, and he caught and held it, although the force of the stroke was so great that the point of the dagger cut his coat slightly.
“I beg a thousand pardons for this seeming rudeness,” he said, still with the utmost politeness, and without lifting his voice. “It is unavoidable, you know.”
The masked unknown felt that she was helpless in his hands.
“If you do not let go, I shall scream, and I will swear you have insulted me,” she swiftly said.
“What, then?”
“You will see how swiftly this crowd will resent an insult to a lady. If you would escape harm, let me go.”
“I will take my chances. This is Grand Prix night, and you will make yourself ridiculous if you accuse me of insulting you. Ladies who are abroad to-night without escorts are not in a position to be too particular.”