There was conviction in his voice. The girl listening in the passage heard the click of a raised revolver hammer.
"Don't!" she cried in greater terror than ever, "I will open!"
He heard a brief whispered consultation, the key was turned in the lock, and the door was suddenly flung open. Sempland darted toward it on the instant and recoiled from the terrible figure of the little woman barring him with outstretched arms. If he had suffered within, she had suffered without the room. Such a look of mortal agony and anguish he had never seen on any human face. She trembled violently before him. Yet she was resolute not to give way, determined to keep the door. Clustered at her back were the three trembling negroes armed one with a knife, another with a pistol, another with a stout club. He would have swept them out of his path in an instant had it not been for the girl. She stood before him with outstretched arms, her attitude a mixture of defiance and appeal.
"The door was suddenly flung open."
"It is too late," she said, "you were to go at seven. It is past that now. Saved, saved!"
He could do her no violence, that was certain. He stood silent before her, his head bent toward the floor, thinking deeply. Her heart went out to him then, her soul yearned to him. She had hurt him, he must hate her—and she loved him.
"Will you not come in and speak to me for a moment?" he asked her quietly enough at last.
She signed to the men, stepped forward, the door was closed, and locked behind her, and they were alone.