"No. Let us revive Miss Barlow. Some water, Rachel," he said to the old servant who had come to the door.
When Emily came to she found Mrs. Shagarach sponging her forehead, while her son was washing his hands in a basin of bloody water.
"Wrap the cotton around them quickly, Rachel," he was saying. "I must notify the police."
"Meyer, it is not safe."
Emily heard the mother protesting, then swooned again. When full consciousness returned the lawyer was gone and the three women were alone in the room. Rachel began picking up the fragments of the lamp. Only its chimney and globe had been broken, the metal being still intact. The windowpanes showed great ragged holes, which explained the laceration of Shagarach's hands.
"Poor lady," cried the mother. "This is ill treatment we give you. But we are not to blame. It is the wicked enemies who are pursuing us all—your lover and my son." With terms of endearment she petted the weak girl back into a coherent understanding of her position. But every now and then the remembrance of something would cause her to shudder again visibly; whereat the elder lady would renew her caresses.
"I have notified the policeman. That was the best I could do," said Shagarach, re-entering. He looked extremely grave. It was a narrow escape for one or more of the three. "This is all I have to identify him by. It was detached in the struggle."
He laid a common coat button down on the table, with a piece of cloth adhering.
"That face! Who could ever forget it?" cried Emily.
"You saw him, then?" asked son and the mother in one breath.