“Well, if he touches me again I’ll scream so that every officer in New York will hear me,” said Marion, boldly, then she suddenly stopped short and stared at the fellow.
“Oh, I guess you won’t do so very much screaming, my beauty,” was the sneering answer.
Marion had walked on slowly with the two men close beside her, and just as they reached a particularly gloomy-looking house the last speaker clapped his hand suddenly over her mouth, while he threw the other arm in a strong grip around her shoulders.
“Quick! Drag her into the areaway,” ordered the other fellow in a low voice. “I have a key to the basement, and the house is empty.”
As Marion heard the words she realized in an instant what the villain meant. She was at their mercy. The thought made her desperate.
In the same instant it flashed across her mind who the half-drunken fellow was. It was Emile Vorse. She knew him in spite of his disguise—for was he not the man of all men whom she had cause to remember?
With one fearful effort she wrenched his hand from her face and gave a cry for help that fairly woke the echoes.
In a second both men were flying down the street and people came hurrying to her aid from every direction.
As a burly policeman rushed up to her, Marion pointed in the direction of the fleeing men.
“They tried to assault me—do catch them, officer,” she cried. “One is Emile Vorse, who is wanted at headquarters!”