Barker  went  back  to  the  St.  Albans,  and  shrunk
into  as  small  space  in  the  office  as  he  could.  He
pulled  a  book  before  him  and  pretended  to  read,
hiding  the  side  of  his  face  toward  the  door  with  the
hand  that  supported  his  head.  His  hand  was  cold
as  ice,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  head  were  in  a
flame.  Williams  came  and  looked  in  at  him  once,
and  then  went  back  to  the  stool  which  he  occupied
just  outside  the  elevator-shaft  when  not  running  it.
He  whistled  softly  between  his  teeth,  with  intervals
of  respectful  silence,  and  then  went  on  whistling  in
absence  of  any  whom  it  might  offend.
Suddenly  a  muffled  clamour  made  itself  heard
from  the  depths  of  the  dining-room,  like  that  noise
of  voices  which  is  heard  behind  the  scenes  at  the
theatre  when  an  armed  mob  is  about  to  burst  upon
the  stage.  Irish  tones,  high,  windy,  and  angry,
yells,  and  oaths  defined  themselves,  and  Mrs.  Harmon
came  obesely  hurrying  from  the  dining-room  toward
the  office,  closely  followed  by  Jerry,  the  porter.
