There was a stir and a faint groan beside them, and the boy flung her off in a twinkling, turning all his attention to Durant, who showed signs of reviving.
He was not swifter than Mademoiselle Mystere herself, who was on the man in a moment, her hands at his throat, her knee pressed into his stomach.
“Quick—the cords!” she fluttered. “Bind his hands and feet—bind him securely! Make every knot tell, and do not lose a second.”
Frank caught up the rope, and obeyed her directions with alacrity. If Durant was able to raise an alarm when he revived, there was little chance for them to escape. He would bring the other anarchists down on them with a rush.
“His feet,” panted the girl. “Now you have them. Make it solid—so. Over with him on his face. Draw it tight. He must not be able to wiggle so much as a finger. Around here—and here again. Give me that end—now pull.”
And thus they worked together.
“The gag,” called Mademoiselle Mystere. “He is coming around! Quick with the gag, before he can raise an alarm!”
The gag was found and thrust into Durant’s mouth, his jaws having been pried apart.
Barely had they succeeded in their work when the man’s eyes opened, and he stared at them. In a moment it was evident that he knew fortune had turned against him, for he saw Frank bending over him. Deadly and undying hatred shot from his eyes, and he tried to start up, but fell back, a groan coming hollowly, chokingly from behind the gag.
The girl had turned away swiftly, that Durant might not see her face, and her features were hidden by the mask when she looked back. In Frank’s ear she whispered: