Her thoughts were flying straight along and to a purpose as she stood there with the door closed and her hand upon the key. They reached the end in an instant, and she almost smiled, it was so simple. Instead of opening the door she locked it, and tried the handle to make sure. She took the key out and almost ran to the window. She sent the key whirling out over the Hudson. She was shut in with the burglar, behind a door which she could not unlock and he could not easily break down. She fell into the window-seat and lost consciousness.
A ROUGH-LOOKING MAN WAS SHAKING HER.
When she opened her eyes a rough-looking man was shaking her.
"Where's the key to that door, miss," he said, gruffly.
"I threw it out of the window," she answered, her voice trembling. She was looking straight at the man, and his eyes shifted.
"What did you do that for?" he asked at last, as if dazed.
"I did it on purpose." Her courage was coming back, now that the man was actually before her, the danger actually on. "I saw you under the bed when I was sitting at the table there. My father is sick down stairs. The slightest excitement would kill him. I thought of several things. The only thing to do was to lock you and myself in so that neither could get out. If I had locked you in there would have been a great noise when I brought the others to attack you. If I had locked you in and gone away and left you for the night you would have tried to break the door down some time before morning, and that would have made a noise."
The burglar was listening with rage, wonder, admiration following one another in his expression. She was glad to see that wonder and admiration were winning over rage. The idea of what she had done seemed to please him.
"Well, I—" He did not finish, which she took as another good sign. He threw himself into a chair, crossed his legs, and put something away in his inside coat pocket.