"You must not come down. You aren't fit."
"Thank you for your advice," a man's voice replied. "Who's your visitor?
Some man? I am going to see. Don't make a scene."
There was the sound of a scuffle; then the cry of a woman, as she fell back exhausted from her physical struggle.
"P'r'aps he's murdering her!"
Miss M'Gann opened the door at the foot of the stairs wide enough to detect a half-clothed man trying to pry open with one arm a heavy door above. She hesitated for a moment, but when the man had shoved the door back a little farther, enough for her to see Mrs. Preston struggling with all her force, she called out:
"Can I help you, Mrs. Preston?"
"No, no, go back! Go out of the house!"
"Well, I never!" Miss M'Gann ejaculated, and retreated to the sitting room, leaving the door ajar, however.
The struggle ended shortly, and soon the man appeared, plunging, tumbling over the stairs. Wrenching open the front door he stumbled down the steps to the road. He was hatless, collarless, and his feet were shod in slippers. As he reached the gate he looked at himself as if accustomed to take pride in his personal appearance, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wound it negligently about his neck. Then, gazing about to get his bearings, he aimed for the road. Just as he crossed the car tracks, heading for the saloon with the big sign, Mrs. Preston entered the room. Her face was pale and drawn. Miss M'Gann was too embarrassed to speak, and she pretended to look into the kitchen.
"You will see now why I don't want a transfer," Mrs. Preston began, to break the awkward silence. "I must look after my husband."