She had seen a swift, deft movement of Mademoiselle's hand—but no, it was impossible. She had imagined it. Yet she stood staring in a bewildered fashion at the Frenchwoman until Katherine touched her arm.
"What's the matter, Miss Carewe? I'm ready to go."
Belinda smiled vaguely, and moved toward the door in the wake of Mademoiselle and her charges, who were also leaving. She lost sight of them in the crowd; but, as she neared the door, there was a sudden swirling eddy in the incoming and outgoing tides. Something was happening outside. The sound of excited girlish voices floated into the shop. A crowd was forming on the sidewalk.
Belinda's cheeks flamed scarlet. A look of startled comprehension gleamed in her eyes.
"Hurry," she urged curtly; and, with her hand on Katherine's arm, forged ahead through the door, unceremoniously pushing aside everyone who interfered with her rapid exit.
Once outside, she turned unhesitatingly toward a group blocking the sidewalk. A policeman's helmet loomed large above the heads of the crowd; and, as Belinda approached, the policeman's sturdy form forced a way through the circle. Following came Mademoiselle de Courcelles escorted by two men whose faces wore smiles of quiet satisfaction. Behind was a bewildered, hysterical group of girls, weeping, lamenting, protesting, entreating.
Belinda stopped the procession.
"There must be some mistake," she said falteringly. "What is wrong?"
One of the keen-eyed men took off his hat respectfully.
"Sorry, Miss; but it's French Liz, all right. We got the tip from Paris that she was working New York again, but we couldn't spot her till to-day."