As we swung up the street he talked very kind to me, complimenting me something awful, and saying that if he ever could do anything for me to let him know and he’d do it if it was within the power of man. "You see, Miss Morganthau," he said as we drew up in front of the Elite, "a man in my position feels pretty grateful to the person who’s lifted off him the shadow of disgrace and death." Up in my room I sat quiet for a long time thinking. The thing that phased me was why I’d changed so, come round to feel that while he was still a grand, strong man, I’d always look up to and do anything for, I’d quit having blind staggers and heart attacks when he came along. Something had sidetracked me. I didn’t know what. All I did know was that two months ago if he’d asked me to be his friend I’d not have known there was such a thing as food in the world. And that evening at half-past seven, being too lazy to go to the Gilt Edge, I was so hungry I had to go down to Mrs. Galway and beg the loan of three Uneedas and a hard boiled egg. It was one evening, not long after, that Anne Hennessey came in to see me. Babbitts was coming that night and Mrs. Galway had given up the parlor again and was in bed with a novel and a kerosene lamp. Anne was quite excited, the reason being that Mrs. Fowler had given her a present. She took it careful out of a blue velvet case and held it up in the glow of the drop light. It was a diamond cross and the minute I set eyes on it I knew where I’d seen it before. "Sylvia’s," I said, low and sort of awed. Anne nodded. "Yes, the one she had on that night. Mrs. Fowler said she wanted to give me something that had been hers. I wouldn’t have taken anything so handsome but I think the poor lady couldn’t bear the sight of it, reminding her of her sorrow as it did." She moved it about and the stones sparkled like bits of fire in the lamplight. I stretched out my hand and took it, for diamonds tempt me like meat the hungry—that’s the Jew in me, I suppose. "You won’t call the King your cousin when you wear this," I said, and I held it against my chest, looking down at the brightness of it. "That’s just where Sylvia had it on," said Anne almost in a whisper, "where the front of her dress crossed. One of the police officers told me." My mother was a Catholic and it’s Catholic I was raised, for though my father was a Jew he loved my mother and let her have her way with me. "Wouldn’t you think," I said, "that when the murderer saw the cross on her it would have stayed his hand?" "Wouldn’t you," said Anne, "but to men as evil as that the cross means nothing. And then out in the dark that way, he probably never saw it."