She was conscious of a sort of wild joy at the thought that he could not, for they were going through him, from the quieted sounds, pocket by pocket, and she knew he would have shot them if he could.
"There's nothing here!" said a voice in French.

Frank, listening so close to them, could hear the three men breathe and pant.
"Then the woman has it!" answered the other voice, likewise in French.
"Shut up! She'll get on!" And Frank could hear them tear and haul at Durkin as they dragged him down the hall--just where, she could not distinguish.
She ran over to Keenan and shook him roughly.

He looked at her a little stupidly, but did not seem able to respond to her entreaties.
"Quick!" she whispered, "or it will be too late!" She flung her pitcher of water in his face and over his head, and poured brandy from her little leather-covered pocket-flask down his throat.
That seemed to revive him, for he sat up on the carpeted floor, mumblingly, and glowered at her.

Then he remembered; and as she bathed his bruised head with a wet towel he caught at her hand foolishly.
"Have we lost them ?" he asked huskily, childishly.
"No, they are here! See, intact, and safe.

But you must take them back.