understood all at once must be the marks left by the finger-nails of all the other lunatics—all the real lunatics, I mean—who had been put in that room before me. The thought that I was standing, doing just what they had done, was horrible. I stepped away from the door, the daze slipped from me, and I grew wild with fright. I flung myself back, and began to beat at the padded canvas with my hands. Each blow made a cloud of dust.
''Help! Help!'' I cried. My voice sounded strange. ''Oh, help! They have put me in here, thinking I''m mad! Call Richard Rivers!'' I coughed. ''Help! Doctor! Help! Can you hear me?'' I coughed again. ''Help! Can you hear me—?''
And so on. I stood and called, and coughed, and beat upon the door—only stopping, now and then, to put my ear to it, to try to tell if there might be anyone near—for I can''t say how long; and no-one came. I think the padding was too thick; or else, the people that heard me were used to lunatics calling, and had learned not to mind. So then I tried the walls. They were also thick. And when I had given up banging and shouting, I put the blanket and the little tin pot together in a heap beneath the window, and climbed on them, trying to reach the glass; but the tin pot buckled, and the blanket slithered and I fell.
At last I sat on the oil-cloth floor and cried. I cried, and my own tears stung me. I put my finger-tips to my cheek and felt about my