A voice said mechanically from the vicinity of my feet: “_Il vous faut
prendre la douche_”—I stared stupidly. The spectre was poised before
me; its averted eyes contemplated the window. “Take your bath,” it
added as an afterthought, in English—“Come with me.” It turned
suddenly. It hurried to the doorway. I followed. Its rapid deadly
doll-like hands shut and skillfully locked the doors in a twinkling.
“Come,” its voice said.
It hurried before me down two dirty flights of narrow mutilated stairs.
It turned left, and passed through an open door.