She cried until she was utterly exhausted, and then sat, leaning her head against the wall, in a kind of hopeless despair. She had no means of knowing what time it was, but from the diminished light she felt sure it must be getting dark. Percy would be waiting for her by this time—growing more anxious every moment. He would telephone the Barlows, but they would know nothing. Oh, why had she not told Mrs. Murphy where she was going? In that case Percy might have found her, but now——
Gretel’s reflections were cut short by the turning of the key; the door swung open and revealed Mr. Becker standing on the threshold, and his wife close behind him. Mrs. Becker carried a tray.
“My wife has brought your supper,” said the man, shortly. “You may bring in the tray, Gertrude.”
Mrs. Becker came in and set the tray down on one of the trunks. There was a gas-jet in the room, and the woman struck a match and lighted it. Gretel noticed that Mrs. Becker’s eyes were red and swollen. She also noticed that the tray contained a well-filled plate of some kind of stew, as well as several slices of bread and butter, and a glass of water.
“I will come back in half an hour to take away the things,” Mr. Becker announced, “so you had best eat at once.”
Gretel clasped her hands imploringly.
“Please, please let me go!” she cried, tremulously, but the man only shook his head, and in another moment the door was closed again, and the key turned in the lock.
In spite of Mr. Becker’s advice to “eat at once,” Gretel did not begin her supper. Indeed, she felt no desire for food of any kind. The smell of the steaming stew, plentifully seasoned with onions, made her so sick that she moved as far as possible from the tray, and sat down on a box in the corner. She was growing more and more frightened every moment. If they kept her there all night she was sure she should die of fright. And yet, strange to say, even at that moment, the idea of securing her liberty by making the required promise never entered her mind.
At the end of the stipulated half hour Mrs. Becker returned, but this time she came alone. She glanced at the untouched food, and then at Gretel.
“Don’t you like your supper?” she inquired, not without some surprise in her tone. “The stew is good. I made it myself.”