But Mathison stepped out tamely, his hands above his head. She followed, slightly chilled. Her arms hung at her side. This was not quite as she would have had it. Why didn't he attempt to distract the man with the automatic—arguments, protests, threats? There was always a chance. She was not afraid of pistol-shots, and he ought to know that. Chilled and disappointed, she stood beside him.
"The lady will put up her hands also." Nothing of the speaker's face could be seen, only his pale-blue eyes, which snapped frostily over the rim of the black handkerchief.
"The lady will do nothing of the kind, for the obvious reason that the cut of her coat will not permit it."
Mathison tightened his lips. Unafraid!
"Brandt!"
The chauffeur jumped down from the taxicab.
"Search them for weapons."
The chauffeur rifled Mathison's pockets, and tossed the heavy Colt to his superior. Then he seized Miss Farrington by the arm. He started to run his free hand over her, when she struck his cheek with a lively report.
"No man shall touch me like that!"