We stole out into the hall like two cats. There I was puzzled. Which way did the uneasiness lead me? Master, of course, went right toward the door of the precious baby’s room, but I turned my back on it, and led him to the door leading out of the apartment into the general hall.
Master, with a greatly relieved face, softly unlocked it, and we stood together outside. There were several other apartments on this floor—the trouble was in one of them.
Ah! at last I caught it, the faint sound of sobbing. I rushed to the door of a pretty delicate little English woman whose husband had gone to the war. I laid my ear to the crack underneath—yes, it was there, the sound of a child crying in the night.
I scratched, and whined, and looked up at master. He listened and heard nothing, but he had such confidence in my judgment, that he pressed the electric button.
No reply, and the sobbing stopped suddenly. The trouble was still there, however, and I redoubled my scratching at the door.
Master rang again, then tried the door softly.
Finally he called in a low voice, “Mrs. Waverlee!”
She did not reply, then he said, “Egbert, Egbert, are you awake? It is Mr. Granton.”
There was a dead silence. I thought it was pretty good in master to stand there so patiently. He could hear nothing, see nothing, but he relied on me.
Suddenly there was a noise inside, like a chair falling over. A little voice cried, “Oh!” then a trembling hand began to fuss with the lock of the door, and at last it was thrown silently open.