"If ever I get my hands on him again," he cried below his breath.
"Mon Dieu," broke in Marie. "If I, too—"
"Hush," interrupted the girl. "It is quite useless for any of us to attempt more until his money gives out. He came back and found a few dollars in my purse."
She had fought this madman, she and this rheumatic old woman, while he had slept! She had called to him and he had not answered! The blood went hot to his cheeks. It was enough to make a man feel craven.
The wounded girl rested her bandaged head on the back of the chair. At the light in Donaldson's eyes, Marie straightened herself aggressively.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked quietly.
"Only a bump," she laughed, remembering how he had stood by the ladder. "Marie insisted upon this," she added, lightly touching the cloth about her forehead.
"A bump?" snorted Marie. "It is a miracle that she was not altogether killed. She—"
But a hand upon the old servant's arm checked her indignation.
"You two women cannot remain here any longer alone," he said authoritatively. "Either you must allow me to take you to the shelter of some friend or—"