So I came quickly, and led by the white-haired Arthurs in a jacket and petticoat, entered a double-bedded room reeking with steam and Friar's Balsam. The electrics were all on. Miss Mary—I knew her by her height—was at the open window, wrestling with Miss Elizabeth, who gripped her round the knees.
Miss Mary's hand was at her own throat, which was streaked with blood.
“She's done it. She's done it too!” Miss Elizabeth panted. “Hold her! Help me!”
“Oh, I say! Women don't cut their throats,” Baxter whispered.
“My God! Has she cut her throat?” the maid cried out, and with no warning rolled over in a faint. Baxter pushed her under the wash-basins, and leaped to hold the gaunt woman who crowed and whistled as she struggled toward the window. He took her by the shoulder, and she struck out wildly:
“All right! She's only cut her hand,” he said. “Wet towel quick!”
While I got that he pushed her backward. Her strength seemed almost as great as his. I swabbed at her throat when I could, and found no mark; then helped him to control her a little. Miss Elizabeth leaped back to bed, wailing like a child.
“Tie up her hand somehow,” said Baxter. “Don't let it drip about the place. She”—he stepped on broken glass in his slippers, “she must have smashed a pane.”
Miss Mary lurched towards the open window again, dropped on her knees, her head on the sill, and lay quiet, surrendering the cut hand to me.
“What did she do?” Baxter turned towards Miss Elizabeth in the far bed.