“Hullo, Miss Harris.”
There was no answer and she ventured less buoyantly:
“Don’t you feel good, Miss Harris?”
The lack of response scared her, yet she stood fascinated like the street gamin eying the victim of an accident. She had seen enough to do what I wanted, and I took her by the arm and pulled her into the hall.
“She looks like she was dead,” she whispered, awed. “Would you think a big husky woman like that would take things so hard?”
I had prepared my lesson in the small hours and answered glibly:
“She’s not half so strong as you think and very sensitive, morbidly sensitive.”
“Um,” said Miss Bliss, “poor thing! I don’t see how if she was so sensitive, she could have stood that man Masters around so much.”
She went down to dress and presently the news percolated through the house. There was an opening and shutting of doors and whisperings on the top flight. Everybody stole up and offered help except the count, who rose late to the summons of an alarm clock. Mr. Hazard went across the street for the doctor, met Mrs. Bushey on her way to physical culture and sent her in.
I met her in the third-floor hall and we talked, sitting on the banister. The count’s alarm clock had evidently done its work, for he eyed us through the crack of his door.