I said nothing immediately. I could not. It was “Little Frank” who resumed the conversation. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Who—I beg your pardon? I am rather upset, I'm afraid. I didn't expect—that is, I expected.... Well, I didn't expect THIS! What was it you asked me?”

“I asked you who you were.”

“My name is Knowles—Kent Knowles. I am Captain Cahoon's grand-nephew.”

“His grand-nephew. Then—Did Captain Cahoon send you to me?”

“Send me! I beg your pardon once more. No.... No. Captain Cahoon is dead. He has been dead nearly ten years. No one sent me.”

“Then why did you come? You have my letter; you said so.”

“Yes; I—I have your letter. I received it about an hour ago. It was forwarded to me—to my cousin and me—here in London.”

“Here in London! Then you did not come to London in answer to that letter?”

“No. My cousin and I—”

“What cousin? What is his name?”

“His name? It isn't a—That is, the cousin is a woman. She is Miss Hephzibah Cahoon, your—your mother's half-sister. She is—Why, she is your aunt!”

It was a fact; Hephzibah was this young lady's aunt. I don't know why that seemed so impossible and ridiculous, but it did. The young lady herself seemed to find it so.

“My aunt?” she repeated. “I didn't know—But—but, why is my—my aunt here with you?”

“We are on a pleasure trip. We—I beg your pardon. What have I been thinking of? Don't stand. Please sit down.”

She accepted the invitation. As she walked toward the chair it seemed to me that she staggered a little. I noticed then for the first time, how very slender she was, almost emaciated. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes and her face was as white as the bed-linen—No, I am wrong; it was whiter than Mrs. Briggs' bed-linen.

“Are you ill?” I asked involuntarily.

She did not answer. She seated herself in the chair and fixed her dark eyes upon me. They were large eyes and very dark. Hephzy said, when she first saw them, that they looked like “burnt holes in a blanket.” Perhaps they did; that simile did not occur to me.

“You have read my letter?” she asked.

It was evident that I must have read the letter or I should not have learned where to find her, but I did not call attention to this. I said simply that I had read the letter.

“Then what do you propose?” she asked.

“Propose?”

“Yes,” impatiently. “What proposition do you make me? If you have read the letter you must know what I mean. You must have come here for the purpose of saying something, of making some offer. What is it?”

I was speechless. I had come there to find an impudent young blackguard and tell him what I thought of him. That was as near a definite reason for my coming as any. If I had not acted upon impulse, if I had stopped to consider, it is quite likely that I should not have come at all. But the blackguard was—was—well, he was not and never had been. In his place was this white-faced, frail girl. I couldn't tell her what I thought of her. I didn't know what to think.

She waited for me to answer and, as I continued to play the dumb idiot, her impatience grew. Her brows—very dark brown they were, almost black against the pallor of her face—drew together and her foot began to pat the faded carpet. “I am waiting,” she said.

I realized that I must say something, so I said the only thing which occurred to me. It was a question.

“Your father is dead?” I asked.

She nodded. “My letter told you that,” she answered. “He died in Paris three years ago.”

“And—and had he no relatives here in England?”

She hesitated before replying. “No near relatives whom he cared to recognize,” she answered haughtily. “My father, Mr. Knowles was a gentleman and, having been most unjustly treated by his own family, as well as by OTHERS”—with a marked emphasis on the word—“he did not stoop, even in his illness and distress, to beg where he should have commanded.”

“Oh! Oh, I see,” I said, feebly.

“There is no reason why you should see. My father was the second son and—But this is quite irrelevant. You, an American, can scarcely be expected to understand English family customs. It is sufficient that, for reasons of his own, my father had for years been estranged from his own people.”

The air with which this was delivered was quite overwhelming. If I had not known Strickland Morley, and a little of his history, I should have been crushed.

“Then you have been quite alone since his death?” I asked.

Again she hesitated. “For a time,” she said, after a moment. “I lived with a married cousin of his in one of the London suburbs. Then I—But really, Mr. Knowles, I cannot see that my private affairs need interest you. As I understand it, this interview of ours is quite impersonal, in a sense. You understand, of course—you must understand—that in writing as I did I was not seeking the acquaintance of my mother's relatives. I do not desire their friendship. I am not asking them for anything. I am giving them the opportunity to do justice, to give me what is my own—my OWN. If you don't understand this I—I—Oh, you MUST understand it!”

She rose from the chair. Her eyes were flashing and she was trembling from head to foot. Again I realized how weak and frail she was.

“You must understand,” she repeated. “You MUST!”

“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I think I—I suppose I understand your feelings. But—”

“There are no buts. Don't pretend there are. Do you think for one instant that I am begging, asking you for HELP? YOU—of all the world!”

This seemed personal enough, in spite of her protestations.

“But you never met me before,” I said, involuntarily.

“You never knew of my existence.”

She stamped her foot. “I knew of my American relatives,” she cried, scornfully. “I knew of them and their—Oh, I cannot say the word!”

“Your father told you—” I began. She burst out at me like a flame.

“My father,” she declared, “was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his forbearance and self-sacrifice you—all of you—would be—would be—Oh, don't speak of my father! Don't!”

To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst into tears. I was completely demoralized.

“Don't, Miss Morley,” I begged. “Please don't.”

She continued to sob hysterically. To make matters worse sounds from behind the closed door led me to think that someone—presumably that confounded Mrs. Briggs—was listening at the keyhole.

“Don't, Miss Morley,” I pleaded. “Don't!”

My pleas were unavailing. The young lady sobbed and sobbed. I fidgeted on the edge of my chair in an agony of mortified embarrassment. “Don'ts” were quite useless and I could think of nothing else to say except “Compose yourself” and that, somehow or other, was too ridiculously reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. It was an idiotic situation for me to be in. Some men—men of experience with woman-kind—might have known how to handle it, but I had had no such experience. It was all my fault, of course; I should not have mentioned her father. But how was I to know that Strickland Morley was a persecuted saint? I should have called him everything but that.

At last I had an inspiration.

“You are ill,” I said, rising. “I will call someone.”

That had the desired effect. My newly found third—or was it fourth or fifth—cousin made a move in protest. She fought down her emotion, her sobs ceased, and she leaned back in her chair looking paler and weaker than ever. I should have pitied her if she had not been so superior and insultingly scornful in her manner toward me. I—Well, yes, I did pity her, even as it was.

“Don't,” she said, in her turn. “Don't call anyone. I am not ill—not now.”

“But you have been,” I put in, I don't know why.

“I have not been well for some time. But I am not ill. I am quite strong enough to hear what you have to say.”

This might have been satisfactory if I had had anything to say. I had not. She evidently expected me to express repentance for something or other and make some sort of proposition. I was not repentant and I had no proposition to make. But how was I to tell her that without bringing on another storm? Oh, if I had had time to consider. If I had not come alone. If Hephzy,—cool-headed, sensible Hephzy—were only with me.

“I—I—” I began. Then desperately: “I scarcely know what to say, Miss Morley,” I faltered. “I came here, as I told you, expecting to find a—a—”

“What, pray?” with a haughty lift of the dark eyebrows. “What did you expect to find, may I ask?”

“Nothing—that is, I—Well, never mind that. I came on the spur of the moment, immediately after receiving your letter. I have had no time to think, to consult my—your aunt—”

“What has my—AUNT” with withering emphasis, “to do with it? Why should you consult her?”

“Well, she is your mother's nearest relative, I suppose. She is Captain Cahoon's daughter and at least as much interested as I. I must consult her, of course. But, frankly, Miss Morley, I think I ought to tell you that you are under a misapprehension. There are matters which you don't understand.”

“I understand everything. I understand only too well. What do you mean by a misapprehension? Do you mean—do you dare to insinuate that my father did not tell me the truth?”

“Oh, no, no,” I interrupted. That was exactly what I did mean, but I was not going to let the shade of the departed Strickland appear again until I was out of that room and house. “I am not insinuating anything.”

“I am very glad to hear it. I wish you to know that I perfectly understand EVERYTHING.”

That seemed to settle it; at any rate it settled me for the time. I took up my hat.

“Miss Morley,” I said, “I can't discuss this matter further just now. I must consult my cousin first. She and I will call upon you to-morrow at any hour you may name.”

She was disappointed; that was plain. I thought for the moment that she was going to break down again. But she did not; she controlled her feelings and faced me firmly and pluckily.

“At nine—no, at ten to-morrow, then,” she said. “I shall expect your final answer then.”

“Very well.”

“You will come? Of course; I am forgetting. You said you would.”

“We will be here at ten. Here is my address.”

I gave her my card, scribbling the street and number of Bancroft's in pencil in the corner. She took the card.

“Thank you. Good afternoon,” she said.

I said “Good afternoon” and opened the door. The hall outside was empty, but someone was descending the stairs in a great hurry. I descended also. At the top step I glanced once more into the room I had just left. Frances Strickland Morley—Little Frank—was seated in the chair, one hand before her eyes. Her attitude expressed complete weariness and utter collapse. She had said she was not sick, but she looked sick—she did indeed.

Harriet, the slouchy maid, was not in evidence, so I opened the street door for myself. As I reached the sidewalk—I suppose, as this was England, I should call it the “pavement”—I was accosted by Mrs. Briggs. She was out of breath; I am quite sure she had reached that pavement but the moment before.

“'Ow is she?” demanded Mrs. Briggs.

“Who?” I asked, not too politely.

“That Morley one. Is she goin' to be hill again?”

“How do I know? Has she been sick—ill, I mean?”

“Huh! Hill! 'Er? Now, now, sir! I give you my word she's been hill hever since she came 'ere. I thought one time she was goin' to die on my 'ands. And 'oo was to pay for 'er buryin', I'd like to know? That's w'at it is! 'Oo's goin' to pay for 'er buryin' and the food she eats; to say nothin' of 'er room money, and that's been owin' me for a matter of three weeks?”

“How should I know who is going to pay for it? She will, I suppose.”

“She! W'at with? She ain't got a bob to bless 'erself with, she ain't. She's broke, stony broke. Honly for my kind 'eart she'd a been out on the street afore this. That and 'er tellin' me she was expectin' money from 'er rich friends in the States. You're from the States, ain't you, sir?”

“Yes. But do you mean to tell me that Miss Morley has no money of her own?”

“Of course I mean it. W'en she come 'ere she told me she was on the stage. A hopera singer, she said she was. She 'ad money then, enough to pay 'er way, she 'ad. She was expectin' to go with some troupe or other, but she never 'as. Oh, them stage people! Don't I know 'em? Ain't I 'ad experience of 'em? A woman as 'as let lodgin's as long as me? If it wasn't for them rich friends in the States I 'ave never put up with 'er the way I 'ave. You're from the States, ain't you, sir?”

“Yes, yes, I'm from the States. Now, see here, Mrs. Briggs; I'm coming back here to-morrow. If—Well, if Miss Morley needs anything, food or medicines or anything, in the meantime, you see that she has them. I'll pay you when I come.”

Mrs. Briggs actually smiled. She would have patted my arm if I had not jerked it out of the way.

“You trust me, sir,” she whispered, confidingly. “You trust my kind 'eart. I'll look after 'er like she was my own daughter.”

I should have hated to trust even my worst enemy—if I had one—to Mrs. Briggs' “kind heart.” I walked off in disgust. I found a cab at the next corner and, bidding the driver take me to Bancroft's, threw myself back on the cushions. This was a lovely mess! This was a beautiful climax to the first act—no, merely the prologue—of the drama of Hephzy's and my pilgrimage. What would Jim Campbell say to this? I was to be absolutely care-free; I was not to worry about myself or anyone else. That was the essential part of his famous “prescription.” And now, here I was, with this impossible situation and more impossible young woman on my hands. If Little Frank had been a boy, a healthy boy, it would be bad enough. But Little Frank was a girl—a sick girl, without a penny. And a girl thoroughly convinced that she was the rightful heir to goodness knows how much wealth—wealth of which we, the uncivilized, unprincipled natives of an unprincipled, uncivilized country, had robbed her parents and herself. Little Frank had been a dream before; now he—she, I mean—was a nightmare; worse than that, for one wakes from a nightmare. And I was on my way to tell Hephzy!

Well, I told her. She was in our sitting-room when I reached the hotel and I told her the whole story. I began by reading the letter. Before she had recovered from the shock of the reading, I told her that I had actually met and talked with Little Frank; and while this astounding bit of news was, so to speak, soaking into her bewildered brain, I went on to impart the crowning item of information—namely, that Little Frank was Miss Frances. Then I sat back and awaited what might follow.

Her first coherent remark was one which I had not expected—and I had expected almost anything.

“Oh, Hosy,” gasped Hephzy, “tell me—tell me before you say anything else. Does he—she, I mean—look like Ardelia?”

“Eh? What?” I stammered. “Look like—look like what?”

“Not what—who. Does she look like Ardelia? Like her mother? Oh, I HOPE she doesn't favor her father's side! I did so want our Little Frank to look like his—her—I CAN'T get used to it—like my poor Ardelia. Does she?”

“Goodness knows! I don't know who she looks like. I didn't notice.”

“You didn't! I should have noticed that before anything else. What kind of a girl is she? Is she pretty?”

“I don't know. She isn't ugly, I should say. I wasn't particularly interested in her looks. The fact that she was at all was enough; I haven't gotten over that yet. What are we going to do with her? Or are we going to do anything? Those are the questions I should like to have answered. For heaven's sake, Hephzy, don't talk about her personal appearance. There she is and here are we. What are we going to do?”

Hephzy shook her head. “I don't know, Hosy,” she admitted. “I don't know, I'm sure. This is—this is—Oh, didn't I tell you we were SENT—sent by Providence!”

I was silent. If we had been “sent,” as she called it, I was far from certain that Providence was responsible. I was more inclined to place the responsibility in a totally different quarter.

“I think,” she continued, “I think you'd better tell me the whole thing all over again, Hosy. Tell it slow and don't leave out a word. Tell me what sort of place she was in and what she said and how she looked, as near as you can remember. I'll try and pay attention; I'll try as hard as I can. It'll be a job. All I can think of now is that to-morrow mornin'—only to-morrow mornin'—I'm going to see Little Frank—Ardelia's Little Frank.”

I complied with her request, giving every detail of my afternoon's experience. I reread the letter, and handed it to her, that she might read it herself. I described Mrs. Briggs and what I had seen of Mrs. Briggs' lodging-house. I described Miss Morley as best I could, dark eyes, dark hair and the look of weakness and frailty. I repeated our conversation word for word; I had forgotten nothing of that. Hephzy listened in silence. When I had finished she sighed.

“The poor thing,” she said. “I do pity her so.”

“Pity her!” I exclaimed. “Well, perhaps I pity her, too, in a way. But my pity and yours don't alter the situation. She doesn't want pity. She doesn't want help. She flew at me like a wildcat when I asked if she was ill. Her personal affairs, she says, are not ours; she doesn't want our acquaintance or our friendship. She has gotten some crazy notion in her head that you and I and Uncle Barnabas have cheated her out of an inheritance, and she wants that! Inheritance! Good Lord! A fine inheritance hers is! Daughter of the man who robbed us of everything we had.”

“I know—I know. But SHE doesn't know, does she, Hosy. Her father must have told her—”

“He told her a barrel of lies, of course. What they were I can't imagine, but that fellow was capable of anything. Know! No, she doesn't know now, but she will have to know.”

“Are you goin' to tell her, Hosy?”

I stared in amazement.

“Tell her!” I repeated. “What do you mean? You don't intend letting her think that WE are the thieves, do you? That's what she thinks now. Of course I shall tell her.”

“It will be awful hard to tell. She worshipped her father, I guess. He was a dreadful fascinatin' man, when he wanted to be. He could make a body believe black was white. Poor Ardelia thought he was—”

“I can't help that. I'm not Ardelia.”

“I know, but she is Ardelia's child. Hosy, if you are so set on tellin' her why didn't you tell her this afternoon? It would have been just as easy then as to-morrow.”

This was a staggerer. A truthful answer would be so humiliating. I had not told Frances Morley that her father was a thief and a liar because I couldn't muster courage to do it. She had seemed so alone and friendless and ill. I lacked the pluck to face the situation. But I could not tell Hephzy this.

“Why didn't you tell her?” she repeated.

“Oh, bosh!” I exclaimed, impatiently. “This is nonsense and you know it, Hephzy. She'll have to be told and you and I must tell her. DON'T look at me like that. What else are we to do?”

Another shake of the head.

“I don't know. I can't decide any more than you can, Hosy. What do YOU think we should do?”

“I don't know.”

With which unsatisfactory remark this particular conversation ended. I went to my room to dress for dinner. I had no appetite and dinner was not appealing; but I did not want to discuss Little Frank any longer. I mentally cursed Jim Campbell a good many times that evening and during the better part of a sleepless night. If it were not for him I should be in Bayport instead of London. From a distance of three thousand miles I could, without the least hesitancy, have told Strickland Morley's “heir” what to do.

Hephzy did not come down to dinner at all. From behind the door of her room she told me, in a peculiar tone, that she could not eat. I could not eat, either, but I made the pretence of doing so. The next morning, at breakfast in the sitting-room, we were a silent pair. I don't know what George, the waiter, thought of us.

At a quarter after nine I turned away from the window through which I had been moodily regarding the donkey cart of a flower huckster in the street below.

“You'd better get on your things,” I said. “It is time for us to go.”

Hephzy donned her hat and wrap. Then she came over to me.

“Don't be cross, Hosy,” she pleaded. “I've been thinkin' it over all night long and I've come to the conclusion that you are probably right. She hasn't any real claim on us, of course; it's the other way around, if anything. You do just as you think best and I'll back you up.”

“Then you agree that we should tell her the truth.”

“Yes, if you think so. I'm goin' to leave it all in your hands. Whatever you do will be right. I'll trust you as I always have.”

It was a big responsibility, it seemed to me. I did wish she had been more emphatic. However, I set my teeth and resolved upon a course of action. Pity and charity and all the rest of it I would not consider. Right was right, and justice was justice. I would end a disagreeable business as quickly as I could.

Mrs. Briggs' lodging-house, viewed from the outside, was no more inviting at ten in the morning than it had been at four in the afternoon. I expected Hephzy to make some comment upon the dirty steps and the still dirtier front door. She did neither. We stood together upon the steps and I rang the bell.

Mrs. Briggs herself opened the door. I think she had been watching from behind the curtains and had seen our cab draw up at the curb. She was in a state of great agitation, a combination of relieved anxiety, excitement and overdone politeness.

“Good mornin', sir,” she said; “and good mornin', lady. I've been expectin' you, and so 'as she, poor dear. I thought one w'ile she was that hill she couldn't see you, but Lor' bless you, I've nursed 'er same as if she was my own daughter. I told you I would sir, now didn't I.”

One word in this harangue caught my attention.

“Ill?” I repeated. “What do you mean? Is she worse than she was yesterday?”

Mrs. Briggs held up her hands. “Worse!” she cried. “Why, bless your 'art, sir, she was quite well yesterday. Quite 'erself, she was, when you come. But after you went away she seemed to go all to pieces like. W'en I went hup to 'er, to carry 'er 'er tea—She always 'as 'er tea; I've been a mother to 'er, I 'ave—she'll tell you so. W'en I went hup with the tea there she was in a faint. W'ite as if she was dead. My word, sir, I was frightened. And all night she's been tossin' about, a-cryin' out and—”

“Where is she now?” put in Hephzy, sharply.

“She's in 'er room ma'am. Dressed she is; she would dress, knowin' of your comin', though I told 'er she shouldn't. She's dressed, but she's lyin' down. She would 'ave tried to sit hup, but THAT I wouldn't 'ave, ma'am. 'Now, dearie,' I told 'er—”

But I would not hear any more. As for Hephzy she was in the dingy front hall already.

“Shall we go up?” I asked, impatiently.

“Of COURSE you're to go hup. She's a-waitin' for you. But sir—sir,” she caught my sleeve; “if you think she's goin' to be ill and needin' the doctor, just pass the word to me. A doctor she shall 'ave, the best there is in London. All I ask you is to pay—”

I heard no more. Hephzy was on her way up the stairs and I followed. The door of the first floor back was closed. I rapped upon it.

“Come in,” said the voice I remembered, but now it sounded weaker than before.

Hephzy looked at me. I nodded.

“You go first,” I whispered. “You can call me when you are ready.”

Hephzy opened the door and entered the room. I closed the door behind her.

Silence for what seemed a long, long time. Then the door opened again and Hephzy appeared. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She put her arms about my neck.

“Oh, Hosy,” she whispered, “she's real sick. And—and—Oh, Hosy, how COULD you see her and not see! She's the very image of Ardelia. The very image! Come.”

I followed her into the room. It was no brighter now, in the middle of a—for London—bright forenoon, than it had been on my previous visit. Just as dingy and forbidding and forlorn as ever. But now there was no defiant figure erect to meet me. The figure was lying upon the bed, and the pale cheeks of yesterday were flushed with fever. Miss Morley had looked far from well when I first saw her; now she looked very ill indeed.

She acknowledged my good-morning with a distant bow. Her illness had not quenched her spirit, that was plain. She attempted to rise, but Hephzy gently pushed her back upon the pillow.

“You stay right there,” she urged. “Stay right there. We can talk just as well, and Mr. Knowles won't mind; will you, Hosy.”

I stammered something or other. My errand, difficult as it had been from the first, now seemed impossible. I had come there to say certain things—I had made up my mind to say them; but how was I to say such things to a girl as ill as this one was. I would not have said them to Strickland Morley himself, under such circumstances.

“I—I am very sorry you are not well, Miss Morley,” I faltered.

She thanked me, but there was no warmth in the thanks.

“I am not well,” she said; “but that need make no difference. I presume you and this—this lady are prepared to make a definite proposition to me. I am well enough to hear it.”

Hephzy and I looked at each other. I looked for help, but Hephzy's expression was not helpful at all. It might have meant anything—or nothing.

“Miss Morley,” I began. “Miss Morley, I—I—”

“Well, sir?”

“Miss Morley, I—I don't know what to say to you.”

She rose to a sitting posture. Hephzy again tried to restrain her, but this time she would not be restrained.

“Don't know what to say?” she repeated. “Don't know what to say? Then why did you come here?”

“I came—we came because—because I promised we would come.”

“But WHY did you come?”

Hephzy leaned toward her.

“Please, please,” she begged. “Don't get all excited like this. You mustn't. You'll make yourself sicker, you know. You must lie down and be quiet. Hosy—oh, please, Hosy, be careful.”

Miss Morley paid no attention. She was regarding me with eyes which looked me through and through. Her thin hands clutched the bedclothes.

“WHY did you come?” she demanded. “My letter was plain enough, certainly. What I said yesterday was perfectly plain. I told you I did not wish your acquaintance or your friendship. Friendship—” with a blaze of scorn, “from YOU! I—I told you—I—”

“Hush! hush! please don't,” begged Hephzy. “You mustn't. You're too weak and sick. Oh, Hosy, do be careful.”

I was quite willing to be careful—if I had known how.

“I think,” I said, “that this interview had better be postponed. Really, Miss Morley, you are not in a condition to—”

She sprang to her feet and stood there trembling.

“My condition has nothing to do with it,” she cried. “Oh, CAN'T I make you understand! I am trying to be lenient, to be—to be—And you come here, you and this woman, and try to—to—You MUST understand! I don't want to know you. I don't want your pity! After your treatment of my mother and my father, I—I—I... Oh!”

She staggered, put her hands to her head, sank upon the bed, and then collapsed in a dead faint.

Hephzy was at her side in a moment. She knew what to do if I did not.

“Quick!” she cried, turning to me. “Send for the doctor; she has fainted. Hurry! And send that—that Briggs woman to me. Don't stand there like that. HURRY!”

I found the Briggs woman in the lower hall. From her I learned the name and address of the nearest physician, also the nearest public telephone. Mrs. Briggs went up to Hephzy and I hastened out to telephone.

Oh, those London telephones! After innumerable rings and “Hellos” from me, and “Are you theres” from Central, I, at last, was connected with the doctor's office and, by great good luck, with the doctor himself. He promised to come at once. In ten minutes I met him at the door and conducted him to the room above.

He was in that room a long time. Meanwhile, I waited in the hall, pacing up and down, trying to think my way through this maze. I had succeeded in thinking myself still deeper into it when the physician reappeared.

“How is she?” I asked.

“She is conscious again, but weak, of course. If she can be kept quiet and have proper care and nourishment and freedom from worry she will, probably, gain strength and health. There is nothing seriously wrong physically, so far as I can see.”

I was glad to hear that and said so.

“Of course,” he went on, “her nerves are completely unstrung. She seems to have been under a great mental strain and her surroundings are not—” He paused, and then added, “Is the young lady a relative of yours?”

“Ye—es, I suppose—She is a distant relative, yes.”

“Humph! Has she no near relatives? Here in England, I mean. You and the lady with you are Americans, I judge.”

I ignored the last sentence. I could not see that our being Americans concerned him.

“She has no near relatives in England, so far as I know,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Merely because—Well, to be frank, because if she had such relatives I should strongly recommend their taking charge of her. She is very weak and in a condition where she knight become seriously ill.”

“I see. You mean that she should not remain here.”

“I do mean that, decidedly. This,” with a wave of the hand and a glance about the bare, dirty, dark hall, “is not—Well, she seems to be a young person of some refinement and—”

He did not finish the sentence, but I understood.

“I see,” I interrupted. “And yet she is not seriously ill.”

“Not now—no. Her weakness is due to mental strain and—well, to a lack of nutrition as much as anything.”

“Lack of nutrition? You mean she hasn't had enough to eat!”

“Yes. Of course I can't be certain, but that would be my opinion if I were forced to give one. At all events, she should be taken from here as soon as possible.”

I reflected. “A hospital?” I suggested.

“She might be taken to a hospital, of course. But she is scarcely ill enough for that. A good, comfortable home would be better. Somewhere where she might have quiet and rest. If she had relatives I should strongly urge her going to them. She should not be left to herself; I would not be responsible for the consequences if she were. A person in her condition might—might be capable of any rash act.”

This was plain enough, but it did not make my course of action plainer to me.

“Is she well enough to be moved—now?” I asked.

“Yes. If she is not moved she is likely to be less well.”

I paid him for the visit; he gave me a prescription—“To quiet the nerves,” he explained—and went away. I was to send for him whenever his services were needed. Then I entered the room.

Hephzy and Mrs. Briggs were sitting beside the bed. The face upon the pillow looked whiter and more pitiful than ever. The dark eyes were closed.

Hephzy signaled me to silence. She rose and tiptoed over to me. I led her out into the hall.

“She's sort of dozin' now,” she whispered. “The poor thing is worn out. What did the doctor say?”

I told her what the doctor had said.

“He's just right,” she declared. “She's half starved, that's what's the matter with her. That and frettin' and worryin' have just about killed her. What are you goin' to do, Hosy?”

“How do I know!” I answered, impatiently. “I don't see exactly why we are called upon to do anything. Do you?”

“No—o, I—I don't know as we are called on. No—o. I—”

“Well, do you?”

“No. I know how you feel, Hosy. Considerin' how her father treated us, I won't blame you no matter what you do.”

“Confound her father! I only wish it were he we had to deal with.”

Hephzy was silent. I took a turn up and down the hall.

“The doctor says she should be taken away from here at once,” I observed.

Hephzy nodded. “There's no doubt about that,” she declared with emphasis. “I wouldn't trust a sick cat to that Briggs woman. She's a—well, she's what she is.”

“I suggested a hospital, but he didn't approve,” I went on. “He recommended some comfortable home with care and quiet and all the rest of it. Her relatives should look after her, he said. She hasn't any relatives that we know of, or any home to go to.”

Again Hephzy was silent. I waited, growing momentarily more nervous and fretful. Of all impossible situations this was the most impossible. And to make it worse, Hephzy, the usually prompt, reliable Hephzy, was of no use at all.

“Do say something,” I snapped. “What shall we do?”

“I don't know, Hosy, dear. Why!... Where are you going?”

“I'm going to the drug-store to get this prescription filled. I'll be back soon.”

The drug-store—it was a “chemist's shop” of course—was at the corner. It was the chemist's telephone that I had used when I called the doctor. I gave the clerk the prescription and, while he was busy with it, I paced up and down the floor of the shop. At length I sat down before the telephone and demanded a number.

When I returned to the lodging-house I gave Hephzy the powders which the chemist's clerk had prepared.

“Is she any better?” I asked.

“She's just about the same.”

“What does she say?”

“She's too weak and sick to say anything. I don't imagine she knows or cares what is happening to her.”

“Is she strong enough to get downstairs to a cab, or to ride in one afterward?”

“I guess so. We could help her, you know. But, Hosy, what cab? What do you mean? What are you going to do?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm going to take her away from this hole. I must. I don't want to; there's no reason why I should and every reason why I shouldn't; but—Oh, well, confound it! I've got to. We CAN'T let her starve and die here.”

“But where are you going to take her?”

“There's only one place to take her; that's to Bancroft's. I've 'phoned and engaged a room next to ours. She'll have to stay with us for the present. Oh, I don't like it any better than you do.”

To my intense surprise, Hephzy threw her arms about my neck and hugged me.

“I knew you would, Hosy!” she sobbed. “I knew you would. I was dyin' to have you, but I wouldn't have asked for the world. You're the best man that ever lived. I knew you wouldn't leave poor Ardelia's little girl to—to—Oh, I'm so grateful. You're the best man in the world.”

I freed myself from the embrace as soon as I could. I didn't feel like the best man in the world. I felt like a Quixotic fool.

Fortunately I was too busy for the next hour to think of my feelings. Hephzy went in to arrange for the transfer of the invalid to the cab and to collect and pack her most necessary belongings. I spent my time in a financial wrangle with Mrs. Briggs. The number of items which that woman wished included in her bill was surprising. Candles and soap—the bill itself was the sole evidence of soap's ever having made its appearance in that house—and washing and tea and food and goodness knows what. The total was amazing. I verified the addition, or, rather, corrected it, and then offered half of the sum demanded. This offer was received with protestations, tears and voluble demands to know if I 'ad the 'art to rob a lone widow who couldn't protect herself. Finally we compromised on a three-quarter basis and Mrs. Briggs receipted the bill. She said her kind disposition would be the undoing of her and she knew it. She was too silly and soft-'arted to let lodgings.

We had very little trouble in carrying or leading Little Frank to the cab. The effect of the doctor's powders—they must have contained some sort of opiate—was to render the girl only partially conscious of what was going on and we got her to and into the vehicle without difficulty. During the drive to Bancroft's she dozed on Hephzy's shoulder.

Her room—it was next to Hephzy's, with a connecting door—was ready and we led her up the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson were very kind and sympathetic. They asked surprisingly few questions.

“Poor young lady,” said Mr. Jameson, when he and I were together in our sitting-room. “She is quite ill, isn't she.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It is not a serious illness, however. She needs quiet and care more than anything else.”

“Yes, sir. We will do our best to see that she has both. A relative of yours, sir, I think you said.”

“A—a—my niece,” I answered, on the spur of the moment. She was Hephzy's niece, of course. As a matter of fact, she was scarcely related to me. However, it seemed useless to explain.

“I didn't know you had English relatives, Mr. Knowles. I had been under the impression that you and Miss Cahoon were strangers here.”

So had I, but I did not explain that, either. Mrs. Jameson joined us.

“She will sleep now, I think,” she said. “She is quite quiet and peaceful. A near relative of yours, Mr. Knowles?”

“She is Mr. Knowles's niece,” explained her husband.

“Oh, yes. A sweet girl she seems. And very pretty, isn't she.”

I did not answer. Mr. Jameson and his wife turned to go.

“I presume you will wish to communicate with her people,” said the former. “Shall I send you telegram forms?”

“Not now,” I stammered. Telegrams! Her people! She had no people. We were her people. We had taken her in charge and were responsible. And how and when would that responsibility be shifted!

What on earth should we do with her?

Hephzy tiptoed in. Her expression was a curious one. She was very solemn, but not sad; the solemnity was not that of sorrow, but appeared to be a sort of spiritual uplift, a kind of reverent joy.

“She's asleep,” she said, gravely; “she's asleep, Hosy.”

There was precious little comfort in that.

“She'll wake up by and by,” I said. “And then—what?”

“I don't know.”

“Neither do I—now. But we shall have to know pretty soon.”

“I suppose we shall, but I can't—I can't seem to think of anything that's ahead of us. All I can think is that my Little Frank—my Ardelia's Little Frank—is here, here with us, at last.”

“And TO last, so far as I can see. Hephzy, for heaven's sake, do try to be sensible. Do you realize what this means? As soon as she is well enough to understand what has happened she will want to know what 'proposition' we have to make. And when we tell her we have none to make, she'll probably collapse again. And then—and then—what shall we do?”

“I don't know, Hosy. I declare I don't know.”

I strode into my own room and slammed the door.

“Damn!” said I, with enthusiasm.

“What?” queried Hephzy, from the sitting-room. “What did you say, Hosy?”

I did not tell her.