After ten seconds of motionless panic, a half score of people sprang to her assistance. But the young man, he of the marble features and steely eye, was first up.
“It’s all right,” he was saying in a quiet, even tone, “she’s my sister. I’ll take care of her. We have a car outside.”
Lifting the unconscious girl in his arms, he started for the door.
“It’s not all right! It’s not all right!” Lucile fairly shrieked the words.
To her vast astonishment, the next moment she was gripping a burly guard by the arm and saying in a voice hoarse with emotion:
“It’s not all right! He’s not her brother. He—he’s stealing her! Stop them!”
To her further astonishment, the guard believed her. With three strides he reached the door and blocked it.
“Here! Here!” he said in the tone of one who is accustomed to be obeyed. “It won’t do. You can’t take her out like that.”
“Oh, all right,” there was a note of forced indifference in the young man’s voice, but there was murder in his cold, hard eyes. “All right, if you know so much. Fetch some water and get her out of it. She’ll tell you I’m her brother. But be quick about it. You’re a beef-head for ordering a gentleman about.”
Lucile’s heart went to the bottom of her shoes. What was this? Had her emotions led her astray? Was he indeed the girl’s brother? It would seem so, else why would he consent so readily to the delay, which must mean proof one way or another? She was soon to see. Tremblingly, she awaited the outcome. Dropping upon the marble floor, she pillowed the girl’s head in her lap and brushing away the hair from the face, caressed the cold forehead with a soft hand.