For an instant Markheim attempted to disobey. But his captor raised his hand and as though at a signal Sebastian fell groveling on the floor before Peaches, bubbling repentance—a loathsomely servile thing from which she shrank.
"Oh, take him away!" she begged. "I hate him so! Take him away!"
"You hear what she says!" said her rescuer grimly. "Go now! Make haste or I will throw you out!"
With some difficulty Markheim got upon his feet and made for the door.
"The police!" he said. "I will have the police! Oh, my face—my face!"
He had found his handkerchief now, and staggered out of the room, holding it to his wound and mumbling imprecations.
Slowly Peaches emerged from her torpor of fright and looked at the man who an hour earlier had been a servant. He was transformed. His shoulders were squared, his eyes alive, his face flushed—he was her boy-lover again. There was no mistake. Now she knew him beyond the shadow of a doubt. If she had ever really questioned his identity, from this moment there was no room for questioning left. All the tightening of her heartstrings, long drawn taut by repression, relaxed. It was as if her whole being had suddenly been flooded with warm sunlight.
"Sandro!" she said, going toward him with outstretched arms. "Sandro, my love, my love!"
For one second she saw the unwitting, involuntary response in his eyes. Then he looked down, that she might not behold it, and drawing himself up he clicked his heels together and bowed. Though he trembled as he did so, his voice was controlled.
"Miss Pegg," he said, "I—I am happy to have served you! Good night."