"You at least place yourself in a strange position," the girl interrupted, though the hand that held the knife was lowered to her side. "But if you really doubt me," he continued, "and don't want to wait until I pick this lock, let me call from the window and get somebody in the street to send up the concierge." "The street?" She evidently did not like this idea. "No, not the street. Why do you not ring for him?" Cartaret's gesture included the four walls of the room: "There's no bell." Still a little suspicious of him, her blue eyes scanned the room to confirm his statement. "Then why not call him from the window in the back?" "Because his quarters are at the front of the house, and he wouldn't hear." "Would no one hear?" "There's nobody in the garden at this time of day. You had really better let me call to the first person that goes along the street. Somebody is always going along, you know." He made two strides toward the front window. "Come back!" He turned to find her with her face scarlet. She had raised the knife. "Break the lock," she said. "But that will take time." "Break the lock." "All right; only why don't you want me to call for help?" "And humiliate me still further?" One small foot, cased in an absurdly light patent-leather slipper with a flashing buckle, tapped the floor angrily. "I have been foolish, and your folly has made me more foolish, but I will not have it known to all the world _how_ foolish I have been. Break the lock at once--now--immediately." Cartaret divined that this was eminently a time for silence: she was alive, she was real, and she was human. He opened a drawer in the table, dived under the divan, plunged behind a curtain in one corner, and at last found a shaky hammer and a nicked chisel with which he returned to the locked door. "I'm not much of a carpenter," he said, by way of preparatory apology. The girl said nothing. He was angry at himself for having appeared to such heavy disadvantage. Consequently, he was unsteady. His first blow missed. His strength turned to mere violence, and he showered futile blows upon the butt of the chisel. Then a misdirected blow hit the thumb of his left hand. He swore softly and, having sworn, heard her laugh. He looked up: the knife had disappeared. He was pleased at the change to merriment that her face discovered; but, as he looked, he realized that her mirth was launched against his efforts, and he was pleased no longer. His rage directed itself from him to her. "I'm sorry you don't approve," he said sulkily. "For my part, I am quite willing to stop, I assure you." If an imperious person may be said to have tossed her head, then it should here be said that this imperious person now tossed hers. "Now, shall I go to the window and yell into the street?" he savagely inquired.