"What—do you mean?" Emily faltered. They looked so ominous—so excited. Nobody spoke.
"Oh, will you tell me what you mean?" Emily cried out. Something frightful was here.
"Madame, we have to protect ourselves. We can't have some one—taking her own life—in our rooms every month in the year. This girl—we kept her here—we didn't think she had a dog. She was trying to buy poison, madame!"
"You're mistaken! Martha, what were you doing?" She tried to get her to speak.
"Madame, we have had to offer a reward—to any employee who prevents—such a thing. This bell-boy"—he was actually indicating a negro standing near him—"just happened to be in a drug store, and saw your daughter refused—this poison. He recognized her; he followed her into another drug store. Who'd sell a girl with that face—anything? He called this policeman."
"I think you're all mistaken. She hasn't been well. I'll take her up and put her to bed," Emily babbled. She was kneeling on the floor by Martha, shaking Martha's arm, and urging her to explain.
"No, madame, not to the ninth floor, not a girl in that condition. We have to defend ourselves. We'll let you talk to her here." He started towards the door. "Just ring here, I'll come back for you."
"Martha! Baby! What is this? What were you doing? What happened after I left you? Tell me! Tell me, Martha! Why didn't you explain to those men?"
When Emily tried to pull her hands away from her face, Martha stirred and jerked back, and buried it in her coat sleeve. Her little thin voice came out, muffled, gasping:
"I've got to die."