When they reached the building, he helped Peter into
the elevator. From there he helped him to his door. He rang the bell,
but no answer came. It was past office-hours, and Jenifer having been
told that Peter would dine up-town, had departed on his own leave of
absence. The policeman had already gone through Peter's pockets to get
money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, taking possession
of Peter's keys. He opened the door and, putting him into a deep chair
in the study, laid the purse and keys on Peter's desk, writing on a
scrap of paper with much difficulty: "mr. stirling $2.50 I took to pay
the carriage. John Motty policeman 22 precinct," he laid it beside the
keys and purse. Then he went back to his beat.
And what was Peter doing all this time? Just what he now did. He tried
to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in it.
Presently he rose, and began to pace the floor, but he kept stumbling
over the desk and chairs. As he stumbled he thought, sometimes to
himself, sometimes aloud: "If I could only think! I can't see.
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