“Retire, varlet,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Prate not to thy betters.”
That evening Tommy sat on the bed, and cogitated deeply. Would Conrad again accompany the girl? If he did not, should he risk trying to make an ally of her? He decided that he must leave no stone unturned. His position was desperate.
At eight o’clock the familiar sound of the key turning made him spring to his feet. The girl was alone.
“Shut the door,” he commanded. “I want to speak to you.” She obeyed.
“Look here, Annette, I want you to help me get out of this.” She shook her head.
“Impossible. There are three of them on the floor below.”
“Oh!” Tommy was secretly grateful for the information. “But you would help me if you could?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Why not?”
The girl hesitated.
“I think—they are my own people. You have spied upon them. They are quite right to keep you here.”
“They’re a bad lot, Annette. If you’ll help me, I’ll take you away from the lot of them. And you’d probably get a good whack of money.”
But the girl merely shook her head.
“I dare not, monsieur; I am afraid of them.”