And I ran too. There was something in the way—a little table, I believe—and he collided with it. That checked him for a moment, and I got to the window first. I threw myself across it with my arms spread out, in an attitude like that assumed by Sara Bernhardt when she is barring her lover’s exit in “Fedora.” But I don’t think any actress ever barred her lover’s exit with as much determination and zeal as I barred the exit of that burglar.
“You can’t go!” I cried, wildly. “You’ve forgotten something!”
He paused just in front of me, and I cried again:
“You haven’t got them; they’re in the jewelry-box.”
He moved forward and laid his hand on my arm, to push me aside. I felt quite desperate, and wailed:
“Oh, don’t go without opening the jewelry-box. There are some things in it I know you will like.”
He tried to push me out of the way—gently, it is true, but with force. But I clung to him, clasped him by the arm with what must have appeared quite an affectionate grip, and continued, imploringly:
“Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m sorry I interrupted you. If you’ll promise not to go till you’ve looked through my things and taken what you want, I’ll leave the room. It was quite by accident that I came in.”
The burglar let go my arm, and looked at me over the handkerchief with a pair of eyes that seemed quite kind and pleasant.
“Really,” he said, in a deep, gentlemanly voice that seemed familiar—“really, I don’t quite understand—”