Then, at the door, he turned to add: "There are four of them, prompt, even rash fellows—all armed but faithful and devoted to me. I beg you to wait until your breakfast is sent up. Attempts to escape are dangerous."
Again the key was turned, and Amaryllis flung herself on the bed, shaking with rage and horror.
But her attention was distracted from herself by the absence of departing footsteps.
The man must be still at the door—listening, spying through some crevice, perhaps.
No—he was talking—listening—replying, in a voice too low for the words to reach her.
And then an answering voice, which rose by swift crescendo, until it drove the man with hasty steps down the passage, followed by a screaming final curse.
Fridji the parlour-maid was jealous, was angry, and was making her Melchard a scene! Oh, but how funny things would be if they weren't so beastly!
But Dutch Fridji, having no humour, entered the room in the worst temper of a depraved woman.
"You want breakfast?" she said, locking the door and taking out the key.
Amaryllis looked up with disdainful laziness.