The girl answered with an eager nod. The color had flown to her cheek. Her eyes flashed in excitement. A sudden doubt assailed Ford.
“You've no time to put on any more clothes,” he commanded.
“I haven't got any!” said the girl.
The knight-errant ran up the fire-escape, pulled himself over the edge of the roof, and, crossing it, dropped through the trap to the landing of the kitchen stairs. Here he expended the greater part of the two minutes he had allowed himself in cautiously opening the door into the hall. He accomplished this without a sound, and in one step crossed the hall to the door that held Miss Dale a prisoner.
Slowly he drew back the bolts. Only the spring lock now barred him from her. With thumb and forefinger he turned the key, pushed the door gently open, and ran into the room.
At the same instant from behind him, within six feet of him, he heard the staircase creak. A bomb bursting could not have shaken him more rudely. He swung on his heel and found, blocking the door, the giant bulk of Prothero regarding him over the barrel of his pistol.
“Don't move!” said the Jew.
At the sound of his voice the girl gave a cry of warning, and sprang forward.
“Go back!” commanded Prothero. His voice was low and soft, and apparently calm, but his face showed white with rage.
Ford had recovered from the shock of the surprise. He, also, was in a rage—a rage of mortification and bitter disappointment.