"Are you armed?" asked the Princess in a whisper.
Trafford's eyes were like stars for brightness.
"I have my fists," he answered.
The Princess produced a tiny revolver from a satin handbag, which she pressed on her companion.
Trafford declined it curtly.
"I have my fists," he repeated.
The Princess regarded him with astonishment and a recrudescence of anger.
"They are trying to take my friend," she expostulated in low tones. "They will probably murder him. It is essential to my success that he escapes their clutches."
"He'll escape all right," said Trafford, with the unreasoning confidence of the born optimist; but the Princess stamped with annoyance at his folly.
Suddenly sounds of a struggle were heard from the direction of the lighted window on the second floor—sounds of shifting feet and reeling furniture, but no cry of human throat or crack of firearm.