“It’s after half past ten—aren’t you going to get up?” she called. She waited again. Two letters lay unopened on a small table. Suddenly she put down her pail and went into the bathroom. The pot of shaving-water stood untouched on the shelf, just as she had left it. She returned and knocked swiftly at her husband’s door, not speaking. She waited, then she knocked again, loudly, a long time. Something in the sound of her knocking made her afraid to try again. The noise was dull and thudding: it did not resound through the house with a natural ring, so she thought. She ran downstairs in terror, fled out into the front garden, and there looked up at his room. The window-door was open—everything seemed quiet. Beatrice stood vacillating. She picked up a few tiny pebbles and flung them in a handful at his door. Some spattered on the panes sharply; some dropped dully in the room. One clinked on the wash-hand bowl. There was no response. Beatrice was terribly excited. She ran, with her black eyes blazing, and wisps of her black hair flying about her thin temples, out on to the road. By a mercy she saw the window-cleaner just pushing his ladder out of the passage of a house a little farther down the road. She hurried to him. “Will you come and see if there’s anything wrong with my husband?” she asked wildly. “Why, mum?” answered the window-cleaner, who knew her, and was humbly familiar. “Is he taken bad or something? Yes, I’ll come.” He was a tall thin man with a brown beard. His clothes were all so loose, his trousers so baggy, that he gave one the impression his limbs must be bone, and his body a skeleton. He pushed at his ladders with a will. “Where is he, Mum?” he asked officiously, as they slowed down at the side passage. “He’s in his bedroom, and I can’t get an answer from him.” “Then I s’ll want a ladder,” said the window-cleaner, proceeding to lift one off his trolley. He was in a very great bustle. He knew which was Siegmund’s room: he had often seen Siegmund rise from some music he was studying and leave the drawing-room when the window-cleaning began, and afterwards he had found him in the small front bedroom. He also knew there were matrimonial troubles: Beatrice was not reserved. “Is it the least of the front rooms he’s in?” asked the window-cleaner. “Yes, over the porch,” replied Beatrice. The man bustled with his ladder. “It’s easy enough,” he said. “The door’s open, and we’re soon on the balcony.” He set the ladder securely. Beatrice cursed him for a slow, officious fool. He tested the ladder, to see it was safe, then he cautiously clambered up. At the top he stood leaning sideways, bending over the ladder to peer into the room. He could see all sorts of things, for he was frightened. “I say there!” he called loudly. Beatrice stood below in horrible suspense. “Go in!” she cried. “Go in! Is he there?”