It seemed to
me that this was to be my end, killed like a rat in a trap and thrown
out the window, to float, like my kitchen chair, into Mollie Maguire's
kitchen, or to be found lying in the ooze of the yard after the river
had gone down.
The steps hesitated at the top of the stairs, and turned back along
the hall. Peter redoubled his noise; he never barked for Mr. Reynolds
or the Ladleys. I stood still, hardly able to breathe. The door was
thin, and the lock loose: one good blow, and--
The door-knob turned, and I screamed. I recall that the light turned
black, and that is all I _do_ remember, until I came to, a half-hour
later, and saw Mr. Holcombe stooping over me. The door, with the lock
broken, was standing open. I tried to move, and then I saw that my
feet were propped up on the edge of Peter's basket.
"Better leave them up." Mr. Holcombe said. "It sends the blood back to
the head. Half the damfool people in the world stick a pillow under a
fainting woman's shoulders. How are you now?"
"All right," I said feebly.
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