There she stood, in the full glare of the light; her slender, girlish form drawn up to its full height; her brilliant silk dress flashing and glittering in the light; her short, dancing, flashing curls of jet falling around her crimson cheeks; her bright, undaunted black eyes wide open, and returning every stare as composedly as though she were sitting in her father’s hall, and these men were her servants. Very much out of place looked Pet, in her rich, sheeny robes and dazzling beauty, amid those roughly-clad, savage-looking men, and in that dismal under-ground apartment.
“Where is she?” asked Rozzel Garnet, unheeding their blank stare of surprise.
“Who?—the missis?” asked one of the men, without removing his eyes from Pet.
“Yes—of course.”
The man pointed to the remote end of the room; and Pet, turning her eyes in that direction saw a sort of opening in the wall, serving evidently for a door, and covered by a screen of thick, dark baize.
Garnet went toward it and called:
“Madame Marguerite.”
“Well,” said a woman’s voice from within, with a strong foreign accent.
“Can I see you a moment, on business?”
“Yes—enter.” And Pet saw a small, delicate-looking hand push aside the screen, and Garnet disappeared within.