"They've not hurt you, Mercia?" I whispered. Then my eyes fell on her wrist, circled by four livid bruises. "By God!" I cried savagely, "who did that?"
She hastily drew her sleeve over the marks.
"It's nothing, it's nothing," she sobbed. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!"
I caught her arm, and gently turned back the covering so that I could see the bruises. They were the marks of a man's fingers,—there could be no question about that,—a vicious, brutal grip, which might easily have broken her wrist.
"Who was it, Mercia?" I repeated.
"It was Rojas," she added; "but it doesn't matter. He would have killed me last night if Guarez had not stopped him. Oh, let's get away before they know you're here."
"It's too late for that, Mercia," I said coolly. "They know I'm here all right. Billy's sitting over them with a spanner in the drawing-room."
She gazed at me half-skeptically, and then the old delicious smile broke through the mist of her eyes.
"They said last night that you were the Devil. I think I am beginning to believe them."
I laughed happily. "They'll be sure of it now," I said. "Where's the woman?"