Carpenter looked from one to another of us, searching our faces. He
looked at the birds of paradise in the lounging chairs. Not one of
them moved a muscle--save only those muscles which caused their eyes
to follow him. It was no concern of theirs, this agony, whatever it
was. Yet, plainly, it was the sound of a woman in torment:
"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"
Carpenter wanted to open that door. His hand would start towards it;
then he would turn away. Between the two impulses he was presently
pacing the room; and since there was no one who appeared to have any
interest in what he might say, he began muttering to himself. I
would catch a phrase: "The fate of woman!" And again: "The price of
life!" I would hear the terrible, explosive wail:
"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" And it would wring a cry out of the depths of
Carpenter's soul: "Oh, have mercy!"
In the beginning, the moving picture critic of the Western City
"Times" had made some effort to restrain his amusement. But as this
performance went on, his face became one enormous, wide-spreading
grin; and you can understand, that made him seem quite devilish.
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