As soon, therefore, as he had risen from the table and put his room in order, and given the child some old picture papers to look at, he thought he would go and see Annie.
He felt the strongest possible temptation to stay home that day to investigate the interesting mystery—to him—of this child picked up in the streets of New York, who could talk of nothing else, and of no one else, but Roma, Dr. Shaw and Mr. Merritt, whose homes were in Western Maryland or in Washington City; but he did not yield to that temptation. He had laid down for himself an iron-cast rule of life, to go daily to his hard labor, as though, indeed, he were under prison discipline for penal servitude.
So he resisted the temptation to stay at home, and resolved to leave the child and the solution of the problem to his neighbor for this day.
Then he went to her door and knocked and called.
The sound of the sewing machine stopped in an instant, and the pleasant voice of the woman demanded:
“Well, what is it, Mr. William? What can I do for you?”
“Come here, dear heart, I wish to speak to you at once,” Harcourt said.
Annie started up and came and opened the door.
“What is it, Mr. William?” she inquired again.
“Oh, Annie, I have picked up a wretched child out of the street—out of the gutter, I might say—under our very doorstep here,” Harcourt replied.