"No you don't. Stand away." He picked up the instrument and gave a number. "That Phillips? Clear all roads."
It was all that Isabel wanted to hear, just those three words which meant one man's safety at the possible price of a mighty fortune. It meant nothing to her that the American was calling for "My man with a suitcase at Charing Cross straight away. I hit this trail myself." She was not even conscious of a medley of voices in the street below—a series of cries and shouts—the blast of a police whistle. All this was without meaning. Consciousness was slipping away and had almost deserted her when the door was flung open and Anthony Barraclough burst into the room. He stood an instant, chest out and with eyes feverishly bright.
"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen, but I've done the trick—this packet——" he rocked a little. "By Gad, I believe I'm going to faint." He tottered forward into Isabel's arms and said—"It's you—how ripping!" That was all.
Cassis pushed forward with the words:
"Has he got it—has he got it?"
"This is what you want, I suppose," said Isabel, and taking the letter case from his pocket, threw it on the table. "He's fainted. Help me get him to his bed."
Doran and she half carried and half dragged him from the room.
No one was aware of Auriole, who had entered just behind and stood now with her back to the wall, biting her lip. After all, when a game is won, pawns are relatively of little importance—except to themselves.
"Signed? Registered?" said Van Diest, edging forward.
Nugent Cassis held the crackling document before his eyes—a Concession to Millions—and he answered between his teeth: