Why was he so still?
She straightened up at her desk and glanced uneasily across her shoulder,
listening.
Not a sound from above; she rose and walked to the foot of the stairs.
Why was he so still? Had he found Clarence? Had anything gone wrong? Had
Clarence become suddenly rabid and attacked him. Cats can't annihilate
big, strong young men. But _where_ was he? Had he, pursuing his quest,
emerged through the scuttle on to the roof--and--and--fallen off?
Scarcely knowing what she did she mounted on tiptoe to the second floor,
listening. The silence troubled her; she went from room to room, opening
doors and clothespresses. Then she mounted to the third floor, searching
more quickly. On the fourth floor she called to him in a voice not quite
steady. There was no reply.
Alarmed now, she hurriedly flung open doors everywhere, then, picking up
her rose-silk skirts, she ran to the top floor and called tremulously.
A faint sound answered; bewildered, she turned to the first closet at
hand, and her cheeks suddenly blanched as she sprang to the door of the
cedar press and tore it wide open.
He was lying on his face amid a heap of rolled rugs, clothes hangers and
furs, quite motionless.
She knew enough to run into the servants' rooms, fling open the windows
and, with all the strength in her young body, drag the inanimate youth
across the floor and into the fresh air.
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