Then he turned and went down the road, half dazed.
Those had been sledge-hammer blows, and they had landed full and hard. They had left him without a shred of all his illusions. His work, that he had been so proud of—he hated it, and everything associated with it. And he was overwhelmed with perplexity and pain—just as before when he had found himself in jail, and it had dawned upon him that the Law, an institution which he had revered, might be no such august thing at all, but an instrument of injustice and oppression.
In that mood he came to the hotel. Again there was no one in the office, so he went directly to the room and knocked. There was no answer; he knocked again, more heavily.
“I wonder if she's gone,” he thought, and looked again at the number, to make sure he was at the right room. Then, timidly, he tried the door.
It opened. “Lady,” he said, and then louder, “Lady.”
There was no response, and he went in. Could she be asleep? he thought. No—that was not likely. He listened for her breathing. There was not a sound.
And finally he went to the bed, and put his hand upon it. Then he started back with a cry of terror. He had touched something warm and moist and sticky.
He rushed out into the hall, and as he looked at his hand he nearly fainted. It was a mass of blood!
“Help! Help!” the boy screamed; and he turned and rushed down the stairs into the office.
The proprietor came running in. “Look!” shouted Samuel. “Look what she's done!”