There was a moment of tense silence while Fritz emptied several drawers, and ran his eye hastily over the contents. Then the policeman returned.
“The door of one of the bedrooms is locked, sir,” he announced. “There is a woman in there; we can hear her crying.”
“Order her to come out,” said Fritz, imperturbably. “If she refuses, break in the door.”
“It is my wife,” protested Becker, “my poor, delicate wife. Surely, gentlemen, you will respect her feelings. I will go away quietly with you, but do not disturb my wife.”
But the police officer had already left the room, and in another moment he could be heard knocking at Mrs. Becker’s door.
“I say, ma’am, unlock that door, will you? We’ve got to get in there. We don’t want to use violence, but it may be necessary if you don’t obey the orders of the police.”
There was the sound of a door being flung violently open, and Mrs. Becker, pale and wild-eyed, rushed into the sitting-room and flung herself on her knees at Fritz Lippheim’s feet.
“Oh, spare me, spare me!” she implored. “It isn’t my fault. I haven’t done anything, indeed I haven’t. I begged my husband to let the child go, I implored him to do it, but he said it was for the cause, and——”
“Hold your tongue, Gertrude,” shouted Mr. Becker. “No one is going to hurt you. They can all see you are too big a fool to do any harm.”
Mrs. Becker relapsed into low, frightened sobbing. Fritz Lippheim, whose face had suddenly brightened, turned eagerly to the policemen.