"It was curtained and shuttered, and the opening of the shutters occupied some minutes, even for the seaman's practised hands. There were bolts—old-fashioned bolts—with mechanism designed to defy burglary, in the days when wealth and fashion inhabited Bloomsbury. Wax matches sputtered and emitted faint gleams and flashes of light here and there in the room. Two or three people had found their way to the locked door, and were shaking and kicking it savagely, without effect.
"At last the bolts gave way, the deft hands having found the trick of them. The seaman flung open the shutters, and the light of the street-lamp streamed into the room.
"The girl was still unconscious, lying across two chairs, her head on the novelist's shoulder.
"'Shamming, no doubt,' said the seaman.
"'No, no; there is no acting here,' said the lady. 'Her face and hands are deadly cold. Ah, she is beginning to recover. How she shudders, poor child!'
"A long-drawn, shivering sob broke from the white lips, which I could see faintly in uncertain light from the street-lamp. The seaman was talking to some one outside, asking him to send the first policeman he met, or to go to the nearest police-office and send some one from there.
"'What's the matter?' asked the voice outside. 'Anybody hurt?'
"'No; but I want to give some one in charge.'
"'All right,' said the voice; and then we heard footsteps hurrying off.
"'Whom are you going to give in charge?' asked Mr. Ravenshaw, in his calm, practical way. 'Not this shivering girl, surely. The other birds are flown.'