I turned, and, in the light which came through the doorway, I found a trim young person gazing at me. As the illumination which came from a single, unshaded electric bulb set on a blank wall opposite the door was behind her, I could see at first only that she wore a dark, tailored suit and a small, dark hat over hair which was unbobbed, abundant and light in color--almost as light as Dorothy Crewe’s had been. “Steve, do you want to talk with Jerry?” she asked me calmly. “Come in, then.” She stepped back, and I stepped after her. As soon as I was in, she closed the door; and there was Jerry standing in the corner back of the door. “Hello, Steve,” he greeted me without emotion. “Hello, Jerry,” I said, and tried to show as little, but I was feeling more than ever before in my life. For here we were, Jerry and I, who’d spent all our lives together; here we were alone with that girl, who’d evidently come with him. I looked at her again and made sure I didn’t know her. “This is Christina, Steve,” Jerry told me in that same, dull voice, purposely deadened to keep out emotion. “Christina,” he said to her, “this is Steve.” “Who’s Christina, Jerry?” I said; stupid thing to ask. He knew it was stupid and he smiled, as Jerry always did; he was used to my being stupid. He simply nodded toward her to say, “You see; there she is.” I stared from her and looked about the room, which was a square, bare place with whitewashed walls, corresponding to an ordinary cellar room. Considered from the street side of the building, a hundred feet or so away, it was a cellar, though its riverside door was eight or ten feet above the water. A single window, with a drawn blind, was beside that door; in the opposite wall, beside the light, was another door, leading either to a basement cavern which could have no outside light, or to a stair; I could not know, for the door was closed and bolted. The floor was cracked cement, strewn with straw and wisps of excelsior; old, open boxes and barrels stood about and a broken desk and chairs. Evidently the place had once been used as a shipping room but had been deserted. I tried to locate it in connection with some particular building, but failed, for I had not kept track how far I’d walked. Suddenly Jerry told me, as though he’d seen my thought, “We’re back of Linthrop’s old warehouse, Steve.” Then I knew that the building above us was empty; and I knew, as I gazed at Jerry, that he’d chosen this place to stop me because of his uncertainty of me.