they after?"

"They've got the key on that side," said the policeman, while Mr. Filer
discharged at the door a volley of sharp knocks, at the same time
violently shaking the handle.

"If the door was locked, what was the good of your standing before it?"
Ransom inquired.

"So as you couldn't do that"; and the policeman nodded at Mr. Filer.

"You see your interference has done very little good."

"I dunno; she has got to come out yet."

Mr. Filer meanwhile had continued to thump and shake, demanding instant
admission and inquiring if they were going to let the audience pull the
house down. Another round of applause had broken out, directed
perceptibly to some apology, some solemn circumlocution, of Selah
Tarrant's; this covered the sound of the agent's voice, as well as that
of a confused and divided response, proceeding from the parlour. For a
minute nothing definite was audible; the door remained closed, and
Matthias Pardon reappeared in the vestibule.

"He says she's just a little faint--from nervousness. She'll be all
ready in about three minutes." This announcement was Mr. Pardon's
contribution to the crisis; and he added that the crowd was a lovely
crowd, it was a real Boston crowd, it was perfectly good-humoured.

"There's a lovely crowd, and a real Boston one too, I guess, in here!"
cried Mr. Filer, now banging very hard. "I've handled prima donnas, and
I've handled natural curiosities, but I've never seen anything up to
this. Mind what I say, ladies; if you don't let me in, I'll smash down
the door!"

"Don't seem as if _you_ could make it much worse, does it?" the
policeman observed to Ransom, strolling aside a little, with the air of
being superseded.

XLII

Ransom made no reply; he was watching the door, which at that moment
gave way from within. Verena stood there--it was she, evidently, who had
opened it--and her eyes went straight to his. She was dressed in white,
and her face was whiter than her garment; above it her hair seemed to
shine like fire. She took a step forward; but before she could take
another he had come down to her, on the threshold of the room. Her face
was full of suffering, and he did not attempt--before all those eyes--to
take her hand; he only said in a low tone, "I have been waiting for
you--a long time!"

"I know it--I saw you in your seat--I want to speak to you."

"Well, Miss Tarrant, don't you think you'd better be on the platform?"
cried Mr. Filer, making