"Has my wife come back?"
Then a merry whistle, a few bars from "Boccaccio" and hasty steps in the corridor. Now his hand was on the door-knob. It was locked.
"Gertrude!" he called.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her lips pressed together, her eyes stretched wide open, but she did not stir.
He supposed she was not there and went quietly into his own room. She heard him open the door of the bedroom.
"Gertrude!" he called again.
Back into his own room; he spoke to the dog, whistled a few bars of his opera-air again, moved about here and there and then stopped--now he was tearing a paper--now he was reading her note.
"Gertrude, Gertrude, I know you are in your room. Open the door!"
His voice sounded calm and kind, but she stood still as a statue.
"Please open the door!" now sounded authoritatively.