That was how she learned of the conferences. She had no curiosity about them at first. They had something to do with the strike, she considered, and with that her interest died. Strikes were a symptom, and ultimately, through great thinkers like Mr. Doyle, they would discover the cure for the disease that caused them. She was quite content to wait for that time.
Then, one night, she went downstairs for a glass of ice water, and found the lower floor dark, and subdued voices coming from the study. The kitchen door was standing open, and she closed and locked it, placing the key, as was Elinor's custom, in a table drawer. The door was partly glass, and Elinor had a fear of the glass being broken and thus the key turned in the lock by some intruder.
On toward morning there came a violent hammering at her bedroom door, and Doyle's voice outside, a savage voice that she scarcely recognized. When she had thrown on her dressing gown and opened the door he had instantly caught her by the shoulder, and she bore the imprints of his fingers for days.
“Did you lock the kitchen door?” he demanded, his tones thick with fury.
“Yes. Why not?” She tried to shake off his hand, but failed.
“None of your business why not,” he said, and gave her an angry shake. “Hereafter, when you find that door open, you leave it that way. That's all.”
“Take your hands off me!” She was rather like her grandfather at that moment, and his lost caution came back. He freed her at once and laughed a little.
“Sorry!” he said. “I get a bit emphatic at times. But there are times when a locked door becomes a mighty serious matter.”
The next day he removed the key from the door, and substituted a bolt. Elinor made no protest.
Another night Elinor was taken ill, and Lilly had been forced to knock at the study door and call Doyle. She had an instant's impression of the room crowded with strange figures. The heavy odors of sweating bodies, of tobacco, and of stale beer came through the half-open door and revolted her. And Doyle had refused to go upstairs.