He stood erect, with his eyes flashing, knit brows, and nostrils quivering, pointing to the door, while with his left arm he supported Louise, whose face gazed wildly into his, no mean representative of that Haute Noblesse which had sought refuge here when persecution drove them from their land.
“Father! Harry!” cried Louise, but only the latter spoke.
“Yes,” he said, drawing himself up. “You are right, I’ll go.”
He strode quickly toward the door; but before he reached it, Liza threw it back.
“Miss Louise,” she cried, “the police!”
With hasty stride the old man rushed to the door and thrust it to.
“Oh!” he gasped, and then after a pause there was one low, hoarse appeal to heaven for aid, “My God!”
The adjuration spoke volumes, and for a few moments the old man stood there as if in a cataleptic state. Then a change came over him, his pale face flushed, the veins in his forehead stood out and throbbed, and he dashed to his son.
“Quick, Harry! France!”
As he spoke Harry broke from him and dashed to the window, threw it open, and was about to spring out, but he drew back. There was no fancy this time; two policemen could be dimly seen below.