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Looking for a lodging for the night, or have you a date with the warder?’ He had joked with her about it. She had shown no interest in his remarks. He had held her by one arm; she had flinched a little under his gaze, and he knew she was frightened. Why did she come here? Had she somebody in the prison? And even if she had, of what use was it for her to stand outside the door? No miracles happened there! She must go home.
    He had seen her again some months later. This time he felt less sorry. He thought she was a nuisance. His slow-moving mind at last connected the contents of her bag with this vigil at the prison. But the mind rendered this up only after the greatest effort. She must go home. He became a little brusque with her, a brusqueness that grew from her silence. The woman said nothing, neither who she was, nor what she was. Where she belonged he did not know. Should he walk the woman the two miles to the station in order to find this out? Hardly. It didn’t seem worth the effort.
    â€˜You can’t stand about here, lady,’ he said. ‘You should be at home in your bed.’
    No, she couldn’t stand there. There was nothing there but a massive door and towering walls, and behind her a wilderness of brickfields. She had gone, and he had watched her go, her black bag held securely under one arm.
    Now here was the woman again. Once more he flashed the light upon her, and now he thought he saw her give a sudden start, though she did not turn round, nor show any interest in where the flash of light came from.
    Whoever she is, she’s a poor creature, standing like a statue at this time of a winter’s morning. What should he do? Put the same old question? Or saying nothing simply take her arm and walk her down to the station. Used to lonely night beats as he was, he had not always the reserve of nerve necessary for occasions like this. He thumbed his lamp again, strongly tempted as he was to flash the light again and this time hold it. What should he do? Tell her to clear to the devil or simply take her to the station. He didn’t even have to make up his mind. For something happened so suddenly that quite unconsciously he flashed the light again. He knew what to do now, for the woman had suddenly fallen on her knees and began beating the door. And as she beat against it, she cried:
    â€˜Peter! Peter!’
    The policeman dashed up and gripped her by the arms: ‘Come, lady! What’s all this about now? Just what’s it all about?’ and he tried to raise her from the ground. But she was stronger in this moment than he. She beat with two fists upon the door. The light was flashed in her face; he saw her face clearly. It was unmistakable. He struggled with her, she was violent. ‘Come! None of this! You can’t go shouting here at this time of the night,’ but she did shout, and with a wild abandon.
    â€˜Peter! Peter!’
    Her whole body seemed to throb. He put his arms right round her, and again had to raise her from the ground. Then he suddenly let go of her and ran to the bell. He rang. The woman had reached the other side of the door; she hammered on it. The policeman ran to her again. He appealed. Was gentle, then brusque, then finally angry. Once he felt in his pockets for his handcuffs. He heard feet in the courtyard beyond, heard a man swearing in the cold night air.
    A smaller door set in the great door itself was opened, a head peered out. What was all this fuss and noise about? The policeman was standing before him. At that moment the woman collapsed. He had meant to say, angry as he was, that he wanted the door open, the large and the small, all doors, so that she could go inside and then that all doors should immediately close again. He was sick of the woman; she had been a real nuisance, not only to herself but to him. Instead he found himself saying, in an agitated voice: ‘Ring for an ambulance right away.’
    The head disappeared, the door