When I came out of it I was sitting on a packing box with a man fanning me and O’Malley, red as a tomato and Willitts the color of ashes in the middle of a mob. There was a terrible hubbub, people jamming together, the wagons stopped and the drivers yelling to know what was up, heads out of every window, and then two policemen, fighting their way through. I felt queer, sickish, and as if the muscles of my face were all slack so my mouth wouldn’t stay shut. But the gentleman fanning me acted awful kind and a clerk came out of a store with ice water and a wet handkerchief that he patted soft on the side of my head. I could see O’Malley and the policeman (they’d come from headquarters I heard afterward) go off into a vestibule with Willitts and the crowd that couldn’t get a look-in came squeezing round me, heads peering up over heads. They’d got the idea that Willitts was my husband, seeming to think only a lawful spouse would dare to hit a woman before witnesses in the public street. The guys in the front were explaining it to the guys in the back and calling Willitts names I couldn’t put down in these refined pages. It got me laughing, especially when an old Jew who had been sizing me up like a piece of goods nodded slow and solemn and said: "And she ain’d zo bad lookin’ neither." I burst right out at that and the man with the fan waved his arms at them, shouting: "Give way there—back—back! She wants air—she’s hysterical. She’s gone through more than she can bear." Gee, how I laughed! Presently in the center of a surging mass we crowded our way to the taxi, the policemen going in front and hitting round light with their clubs. O’Malley with Willitts handcuffed to him got in the back seat, me opposite, with my hat off, holding the handkerchief against my head. As we pulled out I looked back over the sea of faces and caught the eye of one of the policemen. He straightened up, very serious and dignified, and saluted. CHAPTER XXVI—THE COUNTER PLOT Ferguson’s knock on Suzanne’s door was promptly answered by the lady herself, still in her hat and wrap. She clutched at him as she had done when he came to her in her dark hour, drawing him into the room and gasping her news. He was in no mood to follow her ramblings and, as soon as she spoke of a letter, interrupted her with a brusque demand for it. After he had mastered its contents he told her to ’phone at once to Larkin that it was all right, and while she delivered the message, stood by studying the paper. When she turned back to him he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. The touch that once would have sent the blood burning to her cheeks called up no responsive thrill now: "This lets you out—it’s the end of your responsibility. Your part now is to be quiet and wait. To-morrow night you’ll have Bébita back. Just nail that up in your mind and keep your eyes on it." "Back where? Will you bring her here?"