She must have been surprised for the person who mounted into her sight—a girl in a dark coat and hat—was someone she’d never seen before. She pushed the door wider, as if to let more light on me, looking puzzled at my face. The one electric bulb was just above her on the wall and its sickly gleam fell over her, tall and straight in a purple silk kimono. Her black hair curling back from her forehead stood out like a frame, and her neck, between the folds of the kimono, was as smooth and white as cream. The sight of her instead of weakening me gave me strength, for in that sort of careless rig, tired and pale, she was still handsome enough to make a fool of any man. "Do you want to see _me_?" she said, "Miss Whitehall?" "I do," I answered. "I want to see you on a matter of importance. It can’t wait." Without another word she drew back from the doorway and let me come in. "Go in there," she said, pointing up the hall to the curtained entrance of the dining-room, and I went as she pointed. The room was brightly lit, as was the parlor beyond, and on every side were the signs of moving—curtains piled below the windows, furniture in white covers, straw and bits of paper on the floor. Two trunks were standing in the middle of the parlor and on the chairs about were her clothes, all tumbled and mixed up, boots in one place, hats in another, lingerie heaped on the table. There was enough packing to keep her busy till morning, and I thought to myself that was what she intended to do—finish it up tonight and the next day make her move. All this took only a minute to see and I was standing by the dining-table, clutching tight on my muff to hide the trembling of my hands, when she came in. In the brighter light I could see that she looked worn and weary, all her color gone except for the red of her lips, and her eyes sunken and dark underneath. "What do you want with me?" she said, as the curtain fell behind her. Her manner was abrupt and straight from the shoulder like a person’s who’s got past little pleasantnesses and politeness. The glance she fixed on me was steady and clear, but there was a sort of waiting expectation in it like she was ready for anything and braced to meet it. "I came," I said, choosing my words as careful as I could, "to tell you of—of—something that’s going to happen—to warn you." She gave a start and her face changed, as if a spring inside her had snapped and sort of focussed her whole being into a still, breathless listening. "Warn me," she repeated. "Of what?" "Miss Whitehall," I said, clearing my throat, for it was dry, "I’m a person you don’t know, but _I_ know you. I’ve been employed by people here in New York who’ve been watching you for the past few weeks. They’ve got the evidence they want—I’ve been helping them—and they’re ready to act."