l looked vacantly about.

"No," she sobbed, "it's all gone--all."

Puzzled, Constance took her arm and slowly walked her up the street
toward her own apartment in the hope that she might catch sight of some
familiar face or be able to pull herself together.

But it was of no use.

They passed a policeman who eyed them sharply. The mere sight of the
blue-coated officer sent a shudder through the already trembling girl
on her arm.

"Don't, don't let them take me to a hospital--don't," pleaded the girl
in a hoarse whisper when they had passed the officer.

"I won't," reassured Constance. "Was that the man who was following
you?"

"No--oh, no," sobbed the girl nervously looking back.

"Who was he, then?" asked Constance eagerly.

The girl did not answer, but continued to look back wildly from time to
time, although there was no doubt that, if he existed at all, the man
had disappeared.

Suddenly Constance realized that she had on her hands a case of
aphasia, perhaps real, perhaps induced by a drug.

At any rate, the fear of being sent away to an institution was so
strong in the poor creature that Constance felt intuitively how
disastrous to her might be the result of disregarding the obsession.

She was in a quandary. What should she do with the girl? To leave her
on the street was out of the question. She was now more helpless than
ever.

They had reached the door of the apartment. Gently she led the
trembling girl into her own home.

But now the question of what to do arose with redoubled force. She
hesitated to call a physician, at least yet, because his first advice
would probably be to send the poor little stranger to the psychopathic
ward of some hospital.

Constance's eye happened to rest on the dictionary in her bookcase.
Perhaps she might recall the girl's name to her, if she were not
shamming, by reading over the list of women's names in the back of the
book.

It meant many minutes, perhaps hours. But then Constance reflected on
what might have happened to the girl if she had chanced to appeal to
some one who had not felt a true interest in her. It was worth trying.
She would do it.

Starting with "A," she read slowly.

"Is your name Abigail?"

Down through Barbara, Camilla, Deborah, Edith, Faith, she read.

"Flora?" she asked.

The girl seemed to apprehend something, appear less blank.

"Florence?" persisted Constance.

"Oh, yes," she cried, "that's it--that's my name."

But as f