He had ceased struggling as soon as he had tested the firmness of her grasp. Whatever she might mean to do with him could not be frustrated by physical action on his part; experience long before had taught him the futility of such struggles with grown-ups. His short legs could hardly keep pace with her, as she hurried him up one of the long stairs and into a dark hall, where she knocked upon a door.
There came a challenge from within.
"It's Mignon," she replied.
The door opened, blinding him with light, and he staggered forward as she pushed him violently into the room.
"Here is the boy," he heard her say.
It was, as he perceived as he stood blinking, a small room, poorly furnished and lighted by a lamp. A similarly lighted connecting room made up the apartment. A table with an oilcloth cover stood in its middle; there was a couch plainly used for sleeping. He saw staring curiously at him an elderly woman, a younger woman in unsuitably expensive clothes and
