Less the woman's rigid lips than her eyes asked Singleton, "What—do they—mean—to do?"
"You know what they do in a case of this kind in Germany?"
As if the men in front of her had been the firing-squad, each look a bullet, she pitched forward. She would have dropped on her face, had Napier not caught her. He shook her slightly by the arm.
"Here's Nan," he said under his breath, "I mean Miss—your friend and Madge—" The noise outside pierced through the common preoccupation. The motor was rushing up the avenue. Napier led the woman to a chair.
As she sat down, her head fell back against the wall. The face had a dead look.
"We don't want her fainting," Napier said sharply, as Singleton leaned over her.
"There is an excellent train," remarked the secret-service man, "that leaves Fenchurch Street just about this time to-morrow."
She parted her shaking lips. "What has that—to do—with me?"
"You will be able to catch it."
"Shall I—shall I really?" She made a fruitless upward clutching at his arm. Her hand fell back into her lap, as though lamed. "Oh, no! You only want—he wants"—she slid a look at Napier—"to get me out of here without a scene. People's—feelings—must be spared. All—except mine."