“What’s the trouble, old man?” asked Gordon, quietly.
“I have something to tell you,” said Langford, in a low voice. “Come quick—let’s go back to your rooms. Why, girls—”
“We will go, too,” said Mary, with quiet decision. She had caught a glimpse of Red Sanderson’s face through the crowd, and she thought he had leered at her. She had been haunted by the vague feeling that she must have known the man who had attempted to carry her off—that dreadful night; but she had never been able to concentrate the abstract, fleeting impressions into comprehensive substance—never until she had seen that scar and glancing away in terror saw that Langford, too, had seen; but she was not brave enough to lose herself and Louise in the crowd where that man was. She could not. He had leered at Louise, too, last night at supper. They could not ask the protection of Gordon and Langford back to the hotel then, when Langford’s handsome, tanned face was white with the weight of what he had to tell.
“It will be best,” he agreed, unexpectedly. “Come—we must hurry!”
It was Williston’s “little girl” whom he took under his personal protection, diving up the street in the teeth of the gale which blew colder every moment, with a force and strength that kept Mary half the time off her feet. A gentler knight was Gordon—though as manly. All was dark around the premises. There was no one lurking near. Everybody was dancing attendance on the court-house holocaust. Gordon felt for his keys.
“How good it is to get out of the wind,” whispered Louise. This proceeding smacked so much of the mysterious that whispering followed as a natural sequence.
They stepped within. It was inky black.
“Lock the door,” said Langford, in a low voice.
Gordon complied, surprised, but asking no question. He knew his friend, and had faith in his judgment. Then he lighted a lamp that stood on his desk.
“Why did you do that?” asked Louise, gravely.