She slid a step towards the door. Her plan was to gain that door, bar the enemy's way, face him, and throw herself between him and the three young men. Blockaded against the walls of the room, with escape impossible, there were plenty of chances that he would be forced to yield to the will of three strong and resolute men.
She moved yet another step, imperceptibly ... then another. Ten feet separated her from the door. She saw on her right its heavy mass, studded with nails.
She said, as if the disappearance of the medal still filled her mind:
"I must have lost it ... a day or two ago.... I had it on my knee.... I must have forgotten to put it back——"
Suddenly she made her spring.
Too late. At the very moment that she drew herself together, d'Estreicher, foreseeing it, leapt in front of the door, a revolver in either outstretched hand.
This sudden act was masked by no single word. There was no need of words indeed for the three young men to grasp the fact that the murderer of the false Marquis stood before them. Instinctively they recoiled from the menace; then on the instant pulled themselves together, and ready for the counterstroke, they advanced.
Dorothy stopped them at the moment that d'Estreicher was on the point of shooting. Drawn to her full height in front of them, she protected them, certain that the scoundrel would not pull the trigger. But he was aiming straight at her bosom; and the young men could not stir, while, his right arm outstretched, with his left hand still holding the other revolver, he felt for the lock.
"Leave it to us, mademoiselle!" cried Webster, beside himself.
"A single movement and he kills me," she said.