Even as the door opened, they had been speaking, both at the same time and both in French, in itself rather an astonishing phenomenon; but as the bathrobed gentlemen stopped beside them they ceased speaking. They merely clutched each other the tighter and looked at Anthony.
"Well?" Anthony Fry said slowly, and his voice was a terrible thing to hear.
"Well?" David said faintly.
His pretty little friend broke into a torrent of French, of which, unfortunately, neither Anthony nor Johnson Boller could make anything at all. David, with a long, gasping intake of his breath, muttered something to her, and that proving futile, put a gentle hand over her mouth. The girl, looking at Anthony, burst suddenly into loud and hysterical weeping!
"For Heaven's sake, shut her up!" gasped the master of the apartment.
"You started her—it was the way you looked at her!" David said thickly.
"Well, you stop her or I'll wring your neck!" Anthony panted. "You can hear that over half the house."
He turned his eye back to the unfortunate and froze her into sudden silence. Shaking, the girl crouched closer to David Prentiss, and Anthony drew breath once more.
It was a horrible thing that had happened, of course—this coming of a strange woman into his apartment. It was likely to take a good deal of explaining to the management of the Lasande, too, later on. But he had brought it upon himself, and the realization caused Anthony's white fury to glow.
"This—this woman is a friend of yours?" he choked.