But the more excited grew the poor girl, the calmer became the workman’s voice. He announced composedly: “I will not open the door, I told you so before, do what you will!”
In vain the frightened girl shook the locked door, it would not yield; clearly, a mere waste of strength! What could be happening within? what was the secret, the tragedy perhaps, this man of mystery was resolved at all hazards to conceal?
Driven beyond all patience, Elisabeth Dollon hurried on to the landing outside and leaning over the balustrade of the stairs, at the top of her voice, that rose shrill in panic and fear, called for: “Help! help! help!!”
Neighbours came running up, surprised and alarmed, and presently, the girl’s frantic cries still continuing, the concierge, attracted by the uproar, appeared on the scene.
“Whatever is the matter, my dear?” she demanded—and in broken accents Mademoiselle Dollon told the good woman her story. The portress was astounded at the workman’s extraordinary behaviour; she boldly advanced in her turn, to beat with her heavy fist on the closely guarded door.
“Open,
” she vociferated, “open the door! or there’ll be mischief doing.”
But the calm, slightly sarcastic voice of the individual who had locked himself within, replied as before: “I will not open.”
Meantime an impromptu council of war was being held among the neighbours gathered on the landing:
“Go for the police, that’s the only thing to be done; it’s a criminal or a madman has locked himself up in there! We can’t have that poor young girl left alone at his mercy.”