My question seemed to terrify her, and she made a movement as if about to fly. But the duty upon which she was bent gave her courage.
"Don't speak to me!" she implored. "For heaven's sake, leave me!"
I knew what she intended to convey by this appeal. She mistook me for one of the human ghouls who prowl the streets in the belief that every woman is frail.
"I will not harm you," I said, and I repeated my question. "What are you crying for?"
My sad voice reassured her—so she subsequently informed me—and after a pause she answered timidly. "I have been trying for a quarter of an hour to make the chemist hear, but he will not come down. It is life or death, and he will not come down!"
"Your life or death?" I asked.
"No," she replied, "not mine; my mother's—my dear mother's!"
"Let me see what I can do," I said, and I pulled the bell, and listened, with my ear close to the door.
There was no response, and I pulled again, and failed to hear the ring. I discovered then that the night bell was broken. There was another bell on the other side of the door, and this I pulled vigorously, and beat on the door with my fist.
"What is the matter with your mother?"