’ She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. It creaked slightly. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. “It rests with them by the nature of things.
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