"No, ma'am," said Major Stone, with a grave and respectful courtesy, "I am not connected with the police department. I am a professional man--associated at this time with the practice of journalism. I have the apartment or chamber adjoining yours and, accidentally overhearing a member of the opposite sex in seeming distress, I took it upon myself to offer any assistance that might lie within my power. If I am intruding I will withdraw." "No," she said; "it ain't no intrusion. I wisht, please, sir, you'd come in jest a minute anyway. I feel like I jest got to talk to somebody a minute. I'm sorry, though, if I disturbed you by my cryin'--but I jest couldn't help it. Last night and the night before--that was the first night I come here--I cried all night purty near; but I kept my head in the bedclothes. But tonight, after it got dark up here and me layin' here all alone, I felt as if I couldn't stand it no longer. Honest, I like to died! Right this minute I'm almost plum' distracted." The major advanced a step. "I assure you I deeply regret to learn of your unhappiness," he said. "If you desire it I will be only too glad to summon our worthy landlady, Miss--Miss----" he paused. "Miss La Mode," she said, divining--"Blanche La Mode--that's my name. I come from Indianapolis, Indiana. But please, mister, don't call that there woman. I don't want to see her. For a while I didn't think I wanted to see nobody, and yit I've known all along, from the very first, that sooner or later I'd jest naturally have to talk to somebody. I knew I'd jest have to!" she repeated with a kind of weak intensity. "And it might jest as well be you as anybody, I guess." She sat up on the side of the bed, dangling her feet, and subconsciously the major took in fuller details of her attire--the cheap white slippers with rickety, worn-down high heels; the sleazy stockings; the over-decorated skirt of shabby blue cloth; the soiled and rumpled waist of coarse lace, gaping away from the scrawny neck, where the fastenings had pulled awry. Looped about her throat and dangling down on her flat breast, where they heaved up and down with her breathing, was a double string of pearls that would have been worth ten thousand dollars had they been genuine pearls. A hand which was big-knuckled and thin held a small, moist wad of handkerchief. About her there was something unmistakably bucolic, and yet she was town-branded, too, flesh and soul. Major Stone bowed with the ceremonious detail that was a part of him. "My name, ma'am, is Stone--Major Putnam Stone, at your service," he told her.