Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house in
which she lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at all. He had
not seen her for months and imagined she had long since returned to
England. When he arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in.
“Yes, I’ve not seen her go out for two days.”
Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply. He
called her name. The door was locked, and on bending down he found the
key was in the lock.
“Oh, my God, I hope she hasn’t done something awful,” he cried aloud.
He ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room. He
had had a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. He suggested
breaking open the door. The porter, who had been sullen and disinclined
to listen, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of
breaking into the room; they must go for the commissaire de police.
They walked together to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith.
Philip found that Miss Price had not paid the last quarter’s rent: on
New Year’s Day she had not given the concierge the present which
old-established custom led him to regard as a right. The four of them
went upstairs, and they knocked again at the door. There was no reply.
The locksmith set to work, and at last they entered the room. Philip
gave a cry and instinctively covered his eyes with his hands. The
wretched woman was hanging with a rope round her neck, which she had
tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed by some previous tenant to hold up
the curtains of the bed. She had moved her own little bed out of the
way and had stood on a chair, which had been kicked away. It was lying
on its side on the floor. They cut her down. The body was quite cold.