Oh, Jack, is that you? It’s Sylvia. Thank Heavens you’re there. I’m in trouble, I want you. I’ve done something dreadful. I’ll tell you when I see you. I’ll explain everything and you won’t be angry. Come and get me—start now, this minute. Come up the Firehill Road to the Turnpike and I’ll be there waiting, where the roads meet. Don’t ask any questions now. When you hear you’ll understand. And don’t let anyone know—the servants or anyone. You’ve got to keep it quiet, it’s vitally important, for my sake. Come, come quick. That was all. Before he could ask her a question she’d disconnected. And, naturally, he made no effort to find out where the call had come from, being in such a hurry to get to her—Sylvia who was in trouble and wanted him to come. When she came out of the booth she carried a small purse in her hand and Hines then noticed that she had only one glove on—the left—and that her right hand was scratched in several places. Thinking she looked cold he asked her if she would have something to drink and she said no, then pushed back her cuff and looked at a bracelet watch set in diamonds and sapphires that she wore on her wrist. "Twenty minutes to ten," she said. "I’ll wait here for a little while if you don’t mind." She went over to the stove, pulled up a chair and sat down, spreading her hands out to the heat, and when they were warm, opening her coat collar, and turning it back from her neck. Both Hines and Tecla Rabine noticed that her feet were muddy and that there were twigs and dead leaves caught in the edge of her skirt. As she didn’t seem inclined to say anything, Hines, who admitted that he was ready to burst with curiosity, began to question her, trying to find out where she’d come from and what she was waiting for. "You come a long way, I guess," he said. She just nodded. "From Bloomington maybe?" he asked. "No, the other direction—toward Longwood." "Car broken down?" he said next, and she answered sort of indifferent, "Yes, it’s down the road." "Maybe I might go and lend a hand," he suggested and she answered quick to that: "No, it’s not necessary. They can fix it themselves," then she added, after a minute, "I’ve telephoned for someone to come for me and if the car’s really broken we can tow it back." That seemed so straight and natural that Hines began to get less curious, still he wanted to know who she was and tried to find out. "You come a long ride if you come from Longwood," he said. But he didn’t get any satisfaction, for she answered: "Is it a long way there?" "About a hundred and eighteen miles by the turnpike—a good bit shorter by the Firehill Road, but that’s pretty bad after these rains. "Most of the roads _are_ bad, I suppose," she said, as if she wasn’t thinking of her words. They were silent for a bit, then he tried again: "What’s broke in your auto?" And she answered that sharp as if he annoyed her and she was setting him back in his place: