"What do you want me to do?"
"Take me to him—to-night."
"That's impossible. I couldn't find him."
"Yes. You can find him. Or he would have found me."
He smeared out the ash of his cigarette in a receiver and rose, his face livid.
"You seem very sure of him—and of yourself. And if I don't find him for you, what are you going to do?"
"I shall tell what I know to the proper authorities."
He stood for a moment balked and then before she knew what he was about he stumbled to the studio door and turning the key in the lock put it in his pocket. She was frightened by the significance of the action, and ran quickly toward the door of her own room. He turned and moved to intercept her but awkwardly and she slammed the door in his face, catching the bolt on the inside.
She was frightened now, desperately frightened, but resolved to escape and tell what she knew. The brother—Jim—was in danger—a prisoner somewhere—otherwise he would have come to her. Much as his silence had injured her, deeply as her pride was hurt at the position in which he had placed her, she knew now that he had intended to tell the truth from his own lips and warn her of Harry's return before he left her and went away alone. He loved her.... It was his love that had sought to spare her the humiliation of this very knowledge that had come to her. Shell-shock! There was another reason for the substitution. What? But whatever it was, there seemed little difficulty in choosing between them. The other—Jim—the man she loved ... she acknowledged it in every impulse ... would have come to her. She had to find him. Just what she meant to do she didn't know, except to get away from Harry. He was hammering on the door now—pleading with her. But she didn't answer. Catching up her hat and a heavy coat, she went quietly to her own door into the hall, and, while he still hammered and pleaded, fled quickly down the stairs and into the lodge of the concierge.
Madame Toupin, aroused suddenly from her doze, started up in amazement.