“In five minutes!” breathed Jeannette, one hand pressed hard against her breast.
Ah, here she was! Here she was, at last!
Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the key to the street door.
“Thank you, so much,” she said to the taxi-driver who brought her bags up to the landing. She handed him his fare. “Keep the change; I can manage the rest.”
Inside, she grasped her luggage with either hand, and resolutely mounted the two long flights of stairs, forcing herself to go to the top without pausing. She was panting, then, her head splitting.
She tried the apartment door; it was locked.
“Beatrice! Beatrice!” she called, rapping impatiently upon the panels.
A faint mewing came to her ears. There was no other answer.
“Oh, God,—she’s out!” Her cry was almost a sob. Of course! it was still the Thanksgiving vacation; Beatrice would be with her cousins in Plainfield; she wouldn’t be home until Sunday night!
Jeannette fumbled for her door-key. There was little light and she was obliged to kneel before she could find the hole in the lock. With a gasp she finally threw open the door and stumbled into the flat. It was cold, unaired, deserted. Mitzi, tail on end, welcomed her with shrill, complaining cries.