“Standing at the top of the three stairs was a woman who was staring at me. I only saw her for a moment: then the watch dog intervened, and I went into my room. But I _had_ seen her for a moment: I had seen her for long enough to get the look in her eyes.
“We get all sorts and conditions of people behind, as you’d expect—stage-struck girls, actors out of a shop, autograph hunters, beggars. And the watch dog knew my invariable rule: only personal friends and people who had made an appointment by letter were allowed inside the second door. But a rule cannot legislate for every case.
“Gad! you fellows, it’s many years now since that night, but I can still feel, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the message in that girl’s eyes. There had been hope and fear and pitiful entreaty: the look of one who had staked everything on a last desperate throw: the look of a mother who is fighting for her child. It was amazing: I couldn’t understand it. As I stood just inside my door I couldn’t have told you whether she was old or young, plain or pretty. And yet in that one fleeting second this vivid, jumbled message had reached me.” The Actor pressed out his cigarette, and there was silence while he lit another one.
“For a moment I hesitated,” he continued after a while; “then I rang the bell for the watch dog.
“‘Who is that lady I saw outside there?’ I asked, as he came in.
“‘Won’t give no name, sir,’ he answered. ‘Wants to see you, but I told her the rules.’
“Once again I hesitated; probably I’d exaggerated—put a totally false construction on her expression, probably she was looking for a job like the rest of them. And then I knew that I’d got to see that woman, and that I should have no peace of mind until I’d heard what she had to say. The watch dog was regarding me curiously; plainly he could see no reason whatever for my hesitation. He was a matter-of-fact fellow, was the guardian of the door.
“‘Show her in, I’ll see her now.’ I had my back to him, but I could feel his virtuous indignation. After all, rules are rules.
“He went out, and I heard him go up the steps.
“‘Mr. Trayne will see you. Come this way.’
“And then the door opened again, and I turned to face the woman. She was young—quite young, dressed in a kind of cheap suburban frock. Her shoes had been good ones—once, now—well, however skilfully a patch is put on it is still a patch. Her gloves showed traces of much needle and cotton; the little bag she carried was rubbed and frayed. And over the cheap suburban frock she had on a coat which was worn and threadbare.