She dashed the window-curtain aside and turned on him. He was stunned by the mere sight of her face. Every drop of blood seemed driven from it. "You are a coward!" she cried, panting. "A coward! It is a relief to you!" He stood staring at her. "A--a relief!" he stammered. "I--don't understand you. What is the matter?" She had recovered herself almost before he had begun to speak. It was over in a second. He had not had time to realize the situation before she was moving toward the window. "They shall see _me_," she said. "Let us see what they will have to say to _me_." He would have stopped her, but she did not pay the slightest attention to his exclamation. The window was a French one, opening upon a terrace. She flung it backward, and stepped out and stood before the rioters. For a second there was not a sound. They had been expecting to see a man,--perhaps Ffrench, perhaps Murdoch, perhaps even a representative of the small police force, looking as if he felt himself one too many in the gathering, or not quite enough,--and here was simply a tall young woman in a dazzling dress of some rich white stuff, and with something sparkling upon her hands and arms and in her high-dressed blonde hair. The moonlight struck full upon her, and she stood in it serene and bore unmoved the stupid stare of all their eyes. It was she who spoke first, and then they knew her, and the spell which held them dumb was broken. "What do you want?" she demanded. "I should like to hear." Then they began to shout again. "We want Murdoch!" they said. "We ha' summat to say to him." "He is not here," she said. "He has not been here." "That's a lee," remarked a gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd. "A dom'd un." She made no answer, and, singularly enough, nobody laughed. "Why do you want him?" she said next. "We want to hear about that contrapshun o' his as is goin' to mak' th' mesters indypendent. He knows what we want him fur. We've just been to his house and brokken th' winders. He's getten wind on us comin', an' he made off wi' th' machine. He'll be here afore long if he is na here now, an' we're bound to see him." "He'll be up to see thee," put in the gentleman on the outskirts, "an' I dunnot blame him. I'm glad I coom mysen. Tha's worth th' trip--an' I'm a Dillup chap, moind yo'." She stood quite still as before and let them look at her, to see what effect the words had produced. It seemed as if they had produced none. "If you have come to see him," she said, after a few seconds, "you may go away again. He is not here. I know where he is, and you cannot reach him. If there has not been some blunder, he is far enough away." She told the lie without flinching in the least, and with a clever coolness which led her to think in a flash beforehand even of the clause which would save her dignity if he should chance to come in the midst of her words.