"Melchard said he'd got four men downstairs—armed," she whispered.
"Heard him—but it's the only way—they've fixed that window. Just scraped in head first and we can't get out like that. Come on," said Dick, and put the key in the lock.
"I've—I haven't got—haven't got any clothes." And there was no other expression of shame in her face than the two large tears that gathered slowly in her eyes.
But Dick Bellamy ignored them, looking her up and down like a man considering the harness needed for a horse.
"Take off her skirt," he said; then added: "Shoes might do." And with his back turned to the girl, he knelt and quickly unshod Dutch Fridji while Amaryllis unfastened the waistband of the skirt.
"Yours wouldn't last a mile," said Dick, going to the window and looking out. "Put 'em on quick—say when."
In a time wonderfully short, he thought, for a girl, she spoke.
"I'm ready," said the small voice; and he turned to face a quaint figure in a skirt too short, and too wide on the hips. The brogue shoes would have looked better if the stockings had been of anything but green silk.
But the pathos of sentiment and custom was in the bare arms and the two hands crossed on the chest and throat, with fingers spread in vain attempt to cover the whole; and in the plaintive simplicity of the voice which said:
"But, oh, my neck! I can't possibly get into her blouse, and a blanket's too conspicuous."