John recrossed the stage. As he hesitated, he saw Mrs. Hutton drop the garment under discussion and approach him.
Next moment a scream rent all uncertainty.
The most cynical scarcely could have mistaken the cry for anything but one of terror, even without the words—intense, jumbled, regardless—that translated it.
“No.... No.... I hate you.... Father, help me—save me!”
Before Mrs. Hutton could force the resisting handle of the door, John Cabot had put his shoulder against the panel and broken the lock.
CHAPTER VI
The scene within the back room of the bath-set impressed John like a still on a film which had been full of action. First glance might have convinced a superficial person that intrusion was a mistake, but the financier was not limited to first glances.
Leaning against the farther wall, her apparel reduced to the flimsiest of the samples on recent display, stood the manikin. Both her arms were upraised. Both hands clasped the shoulders of Seff.
John glanced away; looked again; saw other things.
The girl was straining to push away the shopman, not to draw him to her. In her eyes, uplifted at the crashing of the door, was pictured the terror which had sounded in her cry. Her face was white as frost—looked the whiter for a mark, shaped after the imprint of teeth, which was reddening in the flesh of her cheek.