"Half-past six," he said, in the thick, smooth tones of the German Jew. "How far have we to go?"
"Two minutes' walk," replied his companion.
"We arrange then—I go in first," said the Jew, "and I soothe the child, and take her out to dine at the Tuscany. You do not appear. You comprehend? You do not appear?"
"All right, all right," said the other man, testily. "That's all arranged. You take her to dine in a private room——"
They moved off together. The last words audible from the Jew were, "A bottle of champagne—after starving all these hours——"
It was true. They were gone. They had stood within a few feet of their prey, and had not seen her. How should they expect to see her in that place, and with that companion? The promptness of Felix, joined to her instantaneous, convent-bred obedience, had saved them.
It seemed to him, and to her, hours that they stood so, hand gripped in hand, he facing towards the street and she towards the shop window, when he said, his voice tumbling over a sob, "They have turned the corner."
She moved slightly towards him—tottered on her feet. He took her by the shoulders, not roughly, but with sternness. "Look here," he said, under his breath, "you can't faint—there isn't time. You have got to pull yourself together and walk—do you hear?"
She nodded blindly, still clinging to his hand, and he dragged her across the road, dived into a dark side street, and moved along, as fast as he could induce her wavering feet to follow, for half a mile or more. By that time she was sobbing aloud in her pain and distress, and, fearful lest passers-by should think he was ill-treating her, and interfere, he stopped and sat down upon a doorstep, drawing her to rest her poor battered body against him.
"I can only give you just time to draw your breath," he said. "I must get you into some hiding-place. We are not going to be taken now."