But even as she said it the wind blew the door shut
behind her. It had a snap-lock.
"Oh!" she said, "I am shut out. If the doctor isn't in the house,
I can't get in."
We rang, but no one came. There was only one way: to try the windows.
The poor girl could not be left in the street. So we went around
the rectory and found one unlatched. She gave me a leg up, and I
raised the sash and crawled in.
Halfway in the room, with one leg over the sill, I became dimly
conscious of a shape there. Tall and expectant, it stood between
the door-curtains.
"Well, sir! and who are you?" it spoke sternly.
I climbed over the sill and put the question myself: "And who are
you, sir?"
"I am Dr. Mottet, and live in this house." He had been in after
all and had come down to hear what the ringing was about. "And now
may I ask, sir--?"
"Certainly, you may. I am a reporter from Police Headquarters, come
up to tell you that your wife is locked up in the Thirtieth Street
police station."
The doctor looked fixedly at me for a full minute. Then he slowly
telescoped his tall frame into an armchair, and sank down, a look
of comic despair settling upon his face.
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