"But they're coming to take you," cried Victoire, gripping his arm.
"Take me?" cried Lupin, freeing himself quietly from her grip. And he stood frowning, plunged in deep thought, weighing the chances, the risks, seeking a plan, saving devices.
He crossed the room to the writing-table, opened a drawer, and took out a cardboard box about eight inches square and set it on the table.
"They shall never take me alive," he said gloomily.
"Oh, hush, hush!" said Victoire. "I know very well that you're capable of anything . . . and they too—they'll destroy you. No, look you, you must go. They won't do anything to her—a child like that—so frail. She'll get off quite easily. You're coming, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not," said Lupin stubbornly.
"Oh, well, if you won't," said Victoire; and with an air of resolution she went to the side of the lift-well, and pressed the buttons. The doors closed; the book-case slid across. She sat down and folded her arms.
"What, you're not going to stop here?" cried Lupin.
"Make me stir if you can. I'm as fond of you as she is—you know I am," said Victoire, and her face set stonily obstinate.
