Now, however, she suddenly asked a question. As half a dozen more constables came in single file into the room in which she was, entering by way of the French window, and at once taking up a position behind the group in the doorway, she said to Arthur, in a fierce undertone—
“Who let them in?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur, who felt sick and cold with excitement and the dread of hearing something which would reflect upon the woman he admired.
Delia, who was also in the group, and who heard these words asked and answered, turned round and laughed harshly. She was looking altogether different from the charming, tactful, gracious creature who usually spent her time walking from one to another among the guests, smoothing the rough places and making herself popular with everyone.
“Can’t you guess?” was all she said.
And then she turned her head disdainfully away again, and resumed her strenuous watch of the proceedings in the adjoining room.
By this time Cecil Jones had seen his orders carried out in the card-room, had muttered a low-voiced apology to one of the guests, a sporting man of some social standing, whom he recognized, and had then advanced towards the group in the doorway. Looking carefully among them, he said, addressing the constables who were standing behind them—
“There are two more here. That’s one of them,” and he glanced at Delia. “And”—he turned again,—“there’s the fifth and the last,” and he indicated Cora.
Arthur was up in arms. Struck with consternation, he saw a constable beckoning to Cora to come out of the crowd which surrounded her. The girl, with a frightened scream, which contrasted strongly with the calmness shown by the others, tried to hide herself among the crowd. Arthur at once tried to place himself between her and the police, so that she might make her escape, as she appeared to wish to do, into the card-room.
But Cecil Jones was confronting her, and he smiled, and said gently—