Once Herr Gottfried spoke: “The people will have been waiting a much-more-than-necessary long time,” he said. “The police doubtless have frightened them, but there is still room to walk in the streets and there have been some unfortunates, since early in the morning--” The street beyond the shop was now deserted because soldiers guarded its approach into Oxford Street; the shop seemed to be left high and dry, beyond the noise and confusion of the street. Then there came into the silence a sharp sound that made Peter amongst his books, jump to his feet: the Russian girl was crying. She stood there, leaning her thin dark body against the side of the door, surely the most desolate figure in the world. Her hands were about her face, her body heaved with her sobbing and the little sad noise came into the dusty tangled room and hung amongst the old broken books as though they only could sympathise and give it shelter. The band in Oxford Street was blazing with sound but it did not hide her crying. Mr. Zanti crossed to her and spoke to her but she suddenly let her hands fall from her face and turned upon him, furiously, wildly--“You ...” she said, “You ...” and then as though the words choked her she turned back into the inner room. Peter saw Mr. Zanti's face and it was puckered with distress like a child's. It was almost laughable in its helpless dismay. Two o'clock struck. “They'll be starting in half an hour,” Herr Gottfried said. “Women,” Mr. Zanti said, still looking distressfully about him, “they are, in truth, very difficult.” And now there was no pretence, any longer, of disguising the nervous tension that was with them in the room. They were all waiting for something--what it might be Peter did not know, but, with every tick of the old brass clock, some event crept more nearly towards them. Then Stephen came back. He came in very quietly as though he were trying to keep the note of agitation that he must have felt on every side of him as near the normal as possible. His face above his beard was grey and streaky and his breath came rapidly as though he had been running. When he saw Mr. Zanti his hand went up suddenly in front of his face as though he would protect himself from the other's questioning. “I've 'eard nothing--” he said almost sullenly and then he turned and looked at Peter. “Why must 'e be 'ere?” he said sharply to Zanti. “Why not? Where else?” the other answered and the two men watched each other with hostility across the floor. “I wish we'd all bloomin' wull kept out of it,” Stephen murmured to himself it seemed. Peter's eyes were upon Mr. Zanti. That gentleman looked more like a naughty child than ever. In his eyes there was the piteous appeal of a small boy about to be punished for some grievous fault. In some strange way Peter was, it appeared, his court of appeal because he glanced towards him again and again and then looked away.