Then Wilfred took hold of him and hurried him away. "Hold your tongue," he said roughly. "You'll get into trouble."
"I will seal my protest with my blood!"
"Stand back!" shouted Van Zwieten, opposing those who would have followed. "Hi, constable!"
"Why, it's Van the cricketer," cried the big man, joyfully. "He's all right, boys. Seen 'im carry 'is bat out many a time, I 'ave."
"Hooray for Van!" roared the fickle crowd, and as half-a-dozen policemen were pushing their way toward the centre of disturbance, it veered round to cheering Van Zwieten.
"Spy! Spy! He's a spy!" shouted a voice that sounded to Brenda uncommonly like Wilfred's.
The crowd growled again, and darted forward. But the police were now pushing right and left. Van Zwieten, who had changed color at the cry, stepped back and was swallowed up by the concourse of people. Wilfred had let the old man go, and the zealot was again raging, waving his crape scarf like a banner.
Brenda, terrified at finding herself alone in the midst of the mob, kept close to the big Dutchman.
Suddenly Wilfred, appearing, as it were, from nowhere, caught her arm.
"Come away! come away! There may be trouble," he cried, drawing her aside on to the steps by St. Martin's Church. Afar off she could see Van Zwieten leading the old man down a side street, and the little band of constables fighting with the mob, who were now inclined to resent any interference. Brenda was in despair.