THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
rickshaws, the snap of a match in the court, and the pacing of the man in the next room, her husband.
She had fallen into the habit of counting these steps. It took fourteen to make the length of his room, but always on the return he paused midway for some reason. He was thinking, then? Ah, she believed she knew what.
Suddenly, one night, she heard a new sound. It was the door-knob! The white enamel fascinated her, for she could see it dimly beyond the foot of the bed. Knowing how powerful he was, that a lock was nothing if once he set his strength against it, she became icy with terror. She was about to summon the nurse when the rattle ceased. She heard him walk out to the veranda, and later she sensed the faint odor of pipe-tobacco. She looked at the clock. It was nine. The door-knob was not disturbed again that night.
For five consecutive nights, however, the knob rattled; always somewhere around nine, after the nurse had retired. Her terror grew and grew; it was setting her back. And yet, how could she tell him? How could she call the nurse and tell her?
On the sixth night, after the usual pacing, she heard him turn the knob again, but this time there came a gentle rapping.
"Ruth?" he called.
She did not answer. She sat up rigidly.
"Ruth, I must talk to you."
Then she spoke. "What is it?"
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