The sickly society tone was no longer in evidence. Mathilda's voice was shrill and furious; it rose higher with every second. Peter shouted; he struggled with the bed-clothes. Meanwhile his wife appeared to be having a fit. Had a grounded wire poured an electric shock into her body she could not have clung to the instrument with more desperate tenacity. She writhed; her broken cries were plainly wrung from her by nothing less than agony.
At last there came a cessation of her incoherence and a tinkling of the bell as she furiously vibrated the hook.
"Hello! … Hello! … Central … My party rang off. … Hello!"
The door of Jim's room burst open.
"What the devil?" he cried.
"Mathilda! Mathilda!" wailed Peter.
Mrs. Knight rushed into her husband's presence like a destroying angel. Jim followed in his pajamas. She was more disheveled than ever, her eyes were rolling, her cheeks were livid, her hair seemed to bristle from its fastenings. She was panting in a labored effort to relieve her feelings.
"What's the matter, ma?"
"Matter? Hell! That was Hannibal Wharton!" stormed the invalid.
"It's—all over," shrilled Mrs. Knight. "He won't have it. He's cut them off. He called me a—a—" Once more she choked in her rage; her teeth chattered. "BOB'S BROKE!"