"Who has? What has? Where is what?" shouted Marcus, flaming with excitement upon the instant. He opened the door and peered down the dark hall, both fists clenched, ready to fight — he did not know whom, and he did not know why.
"It's Zerkow," wailed Maria, pulling him back into the room and bolting the door, "and he's got a knife as long as THAT. Oh, my Lord, here he comes now! Ain't that him? Listen."
Zerkow was coming up the stairs, calling for Maria.
"Don't you let him get me, will you, Mister Schouler?" gasped Maria.
"I'll break him in two," shouted Marcus, livid with rage. "Think I'm afraid of his knife?"
"I know where you are," cried Zerkow, on the landing outside. "You're in Schouler's room. What are you doing in Schouler's room at this time of night? Come outa there; you oughta be ashamed. I'll do for you yet, my girl. Come outa there once, an' see if I don't."
"I'll do for you myself, you dirty Jew," shouted Marcus, unbolting the door and running out into the hall.
"I want my wife," exclaimed the Jew, backing down the stairs. "What's she mean by running away from me and going into your room?"
"Look out, he's got a knife!" cried Maria through the crack of the door.
"Ah, there you are. Come outa that, and come back home," exclaimed Zerkow.