There was a little craning forward of the heads of the two rows of servants and idlers running from the kerb right up into the great hall, forming a moving human wall on each side of the striped Edgington canopy put up for the occasion. The two policemen mildly suggested something about keeping back, but the big burly fellow with a lantern stood his ground, as he had stood it ever since the party had arrived.
The carriage steps were rattled down, the host came delicately tripping like a fat faun in evening costume, and handed Cynthia in, Lord Artingale being apparently quite content. Frank and Cyril were by the door waiting for a cab, there being some talk of calling at a club.
“Why didn’t Artingale bring down Julia?” said Frank, scowling at James Magnus. “Perry-Morton ought to have handed her down.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Cyril, whose face was flushed with champagne. “Come along.”
The brothers were moving off, but they stayed; for just then, as Artingale’s friend was handing Julia in, softening his voice involuntarily as he bade her good night, an importunate linkman thrust himself forward, ostensibly to hold his lantern to make the carriage steps plainer, and to keep the ladies’ dresses from the wheels.
James Magnus saw it, quick as was the act in the semi-darkness, for as Julia was on the last step a great muscular, hand grasped her soft white arm.
She turned sharply, and then uttered a cry of dread as she saw a brown bearded face close to hers.
It was the work almost of a moment; then she sank back in her place in the carriage; the Rector followed; the steps had been rattled up, the door closed, the footman shouted “Home,” and the horses sprang forward, hiding from the frightened girl the struggle taking place in the little crowd, as James Magnus seized the great ruffian by the throat.