Carl sat quietly waiting for her to compose herself a little. His arms were folded across the top of the chair. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the cigarette in his fingers. It rose straight up for several feet before it was disturbed by the futile attack of the ancient ceiling fan.  His heart really went out to the dame. Her physical injuries were nothing compared to what was going on in her mind. In her soul. Her entire world was just turned upside down, and she had no idea why.  He took another drag from the cigarette.  It was heart wrenching to see her sit there, shattered. But what Carl started to feel wasn't pity. It was anger. To say<span style="font-style: italic">'This was certainly no way to treat a lady'</span>was the understatement of the year.  The Hammer was going to nail this guy.<br/><br/>Another drag from the cigarette as he contemplated another moment. He let the smoke drift from his mouth, inhaling it into his nose. Then blowing it carefully away from her face, he found his words. "Missus Davidson" he nodded slightly, acknowledging her title and name, "of course I'll help. And you can call me Carl."<br/><br/>With that, he stood up and snuffed out the cigarette as best he could in the overflowing ash tray. He walked towards the door and retrieved his shirt from the coat rack and slipped it on. As he buttoned his shirt he continued. "I'll go down stairs and check things out. But first I need to make sure you're OK.".  He turned his back to her, unfastened his pants and tucked in his shirt. Fastened and zipped, he turned back around.  He was buckling his belt. "Then we need to call the cops. But while I'm downstairs you should call your husband."  He nodded his head towards the candlestick phone on his desk.<br/><br/>He sat down behind his desk and slipped his brown loafers on.  Then he stood, slipping the cigarettes into his shirt pocket. "I'll lock the door behind me" he said as he walked towards the door.  "Will you be OK?"