"God knows," said he; "you never can tell, in this place of
torment."

I was about to ask, "What sort of place is it?" But the moan came
again, louder, more long drawn out: "O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" It ended
in a sort of explosion, as if the maker of it had burst.

Carpenter turned, and took two steps towards the door; then he
stopped, hesitating. My eyes followed him, and then turned to the
critic, who was watching Carpenter, with a broad grin on his face.
Evidently Rosythe was going to have some fun, and get his revenge!

The sound came again--louder, more harrowing. It came at regular
intervals, and each time with the explosion at the end. I watched
Carpenter, and he was like a high-spirited horse that hears the
cracking of a whip over his head. The creature becomes more
restless, he starts more quickly and jumps farther at each sound.
But he is puzzled; he does not know what these lashes mean, or which
way he ought to run.

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