"I implore you.... They're below.... They're watching you."
Then a whistle, strident and prolonged, rent the air. It came from without.
She ran to the window. Nothing was to be seen from it, and in despair she asked herself:
"What does that mean? He isn't calling his confederates. They're with him now. Then, why that signal?"
She was about to go down in her turn when she found herself caught by her petticoat. From the beginning of the scene, in front of d'Estreicher and his leveled revolvers, Maître Delarue had sunk down in the darkest corner, and now he was imploring her, almost on his knees:
"You aren't going to abandon me—with the corpse?... And then that scoundrel might come back!... His confederates!"
She pulled him to his feet.
"No time to lose.... We must go to the help of our friends...."
"Go to their help? Stout young fellows like them?" he cried indignantly.
Dorothy drew him along by the hand as one leads a child. They went, anyhow, half-way down the staircase. Maître Delarue was sniveling, Dorothy muttering: