“I will see that you are not molested,” was White’s reply. He paused a moment. More stones came flying through the windows. There was a sharp crack of firearms, and a bullet shattered the great chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. Marcus White crossed quickly to the door; the frightened clerk drew aside and watched him anxiously. “Great heavens! where are you going?” asked Herrick. “Outside, to face these curs.” “It is not safe, sir; there’ll be murder done,” cried the affrighted clerk. But White ignored him. “Keep Miss Westwood here for a few moments,” he said to Herrick, speaking in clear, emphatic tones. “Then you will be able to get away in safety. When you hear me fire,” he drew a shining revolver from his pocket, “go--at once!” Without another word, and bare-headed as he was, he passed out of the room. They stood in breathless suspense until a hoarse yell of execration came from the street, attaining increased violence and menace as it was taken up by the greater crowd on the Embankment. An irresistible impulse hurried them to the window. Surrounded by a small bodyguard of adherents, Marcus White was seen, forcing his way across the road. Fists and sticks were shaken at him on every side, and vile epithets in half a dozen languages fouled the air as the human wedge drove through the clamouring, struggling mass and reached the pavement on the river side of the Embankment. The next moment he was standing on the parapet, looking down with dauntless eyes upon the sea of furious faces that was now turned towards him. His voice rang out above the uproar. “Fools! fools, that you are, listen!” The mob responded with a howl of wrath. “Traitor!” cried Raggett, shrill above the din; “Traitor!” and the vast excited multitude took up the cry, yelling it with indescribable ferocity. The gleam of a revolver caught the eye. There were those who thought he fired above their heads. Others believed the shot was meant for Raggett. At any rate it was the promised signal; but Aldwyth and Herrick stood for a moment, held by the overmastering excitement of the scene. Then, with savage curses and screams of fury the mob rushed at the parapet, reckless in their rage. Some clambered up; others fell and were trampled under foot. Swaying and reeling, gripped and torn on either side, Marcus White for a moment held his ground. Covering her eyes, and with a low cry of horror, Aldwyth turned from the window now, and in a moment, supported by Herrick, she had reached the street. Close at hand, in Howard Street, the Westwoods’ carriage, a closed landau, was waiting. “Quick, to Berkeley Square,” cried Herrick. Aldwyth sank back against the cushions, almost fainting, as the horses plunged forward under the sharp lash of the driver’s whip. CHAPTER XXXIII THE FOREIGN SECRETARY Lord Downland’s private secretary shook his head.