talking about.
How do I know but that it is the intention of some one to lure me
downstairs to the telephone and then murder me?"

"I am sure it is not that," she said. For almost the first time she
looked directly at me, and I caught a flash of something--not defiance.
It was, indeed, rather like reassurance.

"You see, you know it is not that." I felt all at once that she did know
who was calling me at night, and why. And, moreover, that she would not
tell. If, as I suspected, it was Miss Emily, this girl must be to some
extent in her confidence.

"But--suppose for a moment that I think I know who is calling me?" I
hesitated. She was a pretty girl, with an amiable face, and more than a
suggestion of good breeding and intelligence about her. I made a quick
resolve to appeal to her. "My dear child," I said, "I want so very much,
if I can, to help some one who is in trouble. But before I can help, I
must know that I can help, and I must be sure it is necessary. I wonder
if you know what I am talking about?"

"Why don't you go back to the city?" she said suddenly. "Go away and
forget all about us here. That would help more than anything."

"But--would it?" I asked gently. "Would my going away help--her?"

To my absolute amazement she began to cry. We had been sitting on a
cheap porch seat, side by side, and she turned her back to me and put
her head against the arm of the bench.

"She's going to die!" she said shakily. "She's weaker every day. She is
slipping away, and no one does anything."

But I got nothing more from her. She had understood me, it was clear,
and when at last she stopped crying, she knew well enough that she had
betrayed her understanding. But she would not talk. I felt that she was
not unfriendly, and that she was uncertain rather than stubborn. In the
end I got up, little better off than when I came.

"I'll give you time to think it over," I said. "Not so much about the
telephone calls, because you've really answered that. But about Miss
Emily. She needs help, and I want to help her. But you tie my hands."

She had a sort of gift for silence. As I grew later on to know Anne
Bullard better, I realized that even more. So now she sat silent, and
let me talk.

"What I want," I said, "is to have Miss Emily know that I am
friendly--that I am willing to do anything to--to show my friendliness.
Anything."

"You see," she said, with a kind of dogged patience, "it isn't really
up to you, or to me