Then, without so much as a glance at the lawyer, he closed his desk lid with a bang and left the office.
Mr. Ricaby waited anxiously for the coming of his client. All voices and sounds had died away, and a heavy, sinister silence fell upon the entire building. There was something unnatural about the dead calm. Suddenly there was a scream of terror, followed by peals of hysterical laughter. Then all was silence again. In spite of himself the lawyer felt uncomfortable. He shuddered as he realized what Paula had suffered in such a place. The quiet now was uncanny and oppressive. All one heard was the loud ticking of the office clock and the stealthy walk of old Collins, who, gliding about the room in his noiseless felt slippers, halted every now and then to glance in the direction of the visitor. Like most persons of weak mind, he was easily excited by the appearance of a new face. Indeed, strangers at "Sea Rest" were enough of a novelty to excite interest. With the physicians and regular callers the inmates were familiar enough, but the sight of a stranger revived in their debilitated minds old recollections, thoughts of the outer world, a world of sunshine, joy, and liberty of which they themselves had once been a part and which they had abandoned all hope of ever seeing again. At last, unable to control his curiosity any longer, the old man stopped in front of the lawyer and inquired respectfully:
"Can I get you anything, sir?"
"No, thanks," replied Mr. Ricaby. There was something in the appearance of the old man that interested him, and kindly he asked: "How long have you been here?"
"Nearly ten years, sir—on and off. I was an inmate here, sir, when Dr. Spencer—Mr. Spencer's father—was the proprietor."
"Are you still a—a—an inmate?"
"No, sir—not so to speak. I'm a waiter, sir—my old profession. After I got better I went back to my old position at Delmonico's, but I couldn't stand the excitement. You wouldn't believe it, sir, but waiters are frightfully tried. We've got to know just what people want, who don't know what they want themselves, and who complain if we make the slightest mistake. Don't they make mistakes, too? Don't they point with their knives and forks while they talk in a vulgar, loud voice with their mouths full of food? Don't they put vinegar on their oysters and ice in their claret? Don't they drink champagne with fish? Don't they expect a half portion to be enough for two? And, cruellest act of all, they talk to us in a language they call French. They blame us when the cashier makes mistakes. They blame us when the cook makes mistakes. They blame us when their own digestions make mistakes. They forget that we're human. And, I tell you, sir, it gets on our nerves at last. It's bound to." Suddenly the electric indicator buzzed loudly. The old man started nervously and glanced up.
"It's the dining room, sir. Excuse me, sir."
Before he could obey the summons a bell sounded violently from the same direction.
"All right—all right," he cried. "I heard it the first time."