“Oh! She dropped it! Too bad! Here’s another.” There was a note of insolence in the voice of the youth as he poured a second glass. “Here! Drink this!”
“No, my friend!” Her voice was like thin, clear ice. “No, I will not drink it.” No longer was she Lorena LeMar. She was Jeanne, the gypsy. In her veins there coursed the wild, free, fighting spirit of a true vagabond. Had she possessed a knife.... Ah, well, she had no knife.
One weapon alone she possessed, truly a woman’s weapon—a scream.
This weapon she used. Not in vain had she practiced for hours a stage scream. When her slender voice rose shrill and high the three play-boys became rigid as stone.
The effect of that scream was sudden and most astonishing. Some bulk struck the door. Again; yet again. Then the lock broke and a tall, slim youth half stepped, half fell into the room. He was followed by a taxi driver.
Recovering from his shock, the leader of the play-boys took a step forward. Hot words were on his lips. They were not spoken. He was met by a heavy chair thrown with lightning-like speed by the astonishing stranger.
Taking him in the pit of the stomach the chair hurled the play-boy backward into his companions. Like so many tenpins they went down with a crash.
Not a word was spoken as the tall stranger gathered Jeanne up in his arms, marched out of the room and down the steps, deposited his burden in the taxi, sprang in beside her, gave the driver orders, then watched the building narrowly as they drove away.
“And I would take my oath I never saw him,” Jeanne whispered to herself. Sinking deep among the cushions, she suddenly felt very small, very young and quite helpless.