"I am sorry I startled you," he said quietly. "I was afraid to speak
suddenly, or move, for fear I would do--what I have done."
It was Mr. Harbison.
"I--I thought you were--it is very late," I managed to say, with dry
lips. "Do you know where the electric switch is?"
"Mrs. Wilson!" It was clear he had not known me before. "Why, no; don't
you?"
"I am all confused," I muttered, and beat a retreat into the dining
room. There, in the friendly light, we could at least see each other,
and I think he was as much impressed by the fact that I had not
undressed as I was by the fact that he HAD, partly. He wore a hideous
dressing gown of Jimmy's, much too small, and his hair, parted and
plastered down in the early evening, stood up in a sort of brown brush
all over his head. He was trying to flatten it with his hands.
"It must be three o'clock," he said, with polite surprise, "and the
house is like a barn. You ought not to be running around with your arms
uncovered, Mrs. Wilson. Surely you could have called some of us."
"I didn't wish to disturb any one," I said, with distinct truth.
"I suppose you are like me," he said. "The novelty of the situation--and
everything. I got to thinking things over, and then I realized the
studio was getting cold, so I thought I would come down and take a look
at the furnace. I didn't suppose any one else would think of it. But
I lost myself in that pantry, stumbled against a half-open drawer, and
nearly went down the dumb-waiter." And, as if in judgment on me, at
that instant came two rather terrific thumps from somewhere below,
and inarticulate words, shouted rather than spoken. It was uncanny, of
course, coming as it did through the register at our feet. Mr. Harbison
looked startled.
"Oh, by the way," I said, as carelessly as I could. "In the excitement,
I forgot to mention it. There is a policeman asleep in the furnace room.
I--I suppose we will have to keep him now," I finished as airily as
possible.
"Oh, a policeman--in the cellar," he repeated, staring at me, and he
moved toward the pantry door.
"You needn't go down," I said feverishly, with visions of Bella Knowles
sitting on the kitchen table, surrounded by soiled dishes and all the
cheerless aftermath of a dinner party. "Please don't go down. I--it's
one of my rules--never to let a stranger go down to the kitchen. I--I'm
peculiar--that way--and besides, it's--it's mussy."
Bang! Crash! through the register pipe, and some language quite
articulate. Then silence.
"Look here, Mrs. Wilson," he said resolutely. "What do I care about the
kitchen? I'm going down and arrest that policeman for disturbing the
peace. He will have the pipes down."