"No," Peggy was driven to confess, "she’s not here." "We might as well go home. I don’t know what you think about it, Peggy Raymond, but it looks pretty queer to me." Peggy was not communicative. In silence they walked to the cars two blocks away, and on the corner they found Elaine. It was not the enthusiastic Elaine of the concert, not the self-sufficient Elaine, familiar ever since her arrival on the Terrace. She looked pale and wan and harassed. For her extraordinary flight Elaine offered no explanation. "I thought I’d wait for you here," she said faintly. "We didn’t know that. We’ve been waiting for you there." Priscilla’s tone indicated that she expected something more, but apparently Elaine did not realize the need either of explanation or apology. But as they climbed up into the car, she looked so faint and frail that without thinking, Peggy took her arm to steady her. At the touch Elaine lifted her eyes with a grateful look which had the effect of sweeping away all Peggy’s suspicions, like a spring freshet. Peggy made no pretence to being logical. All she asserted was that sometimes she "just knew things." The ride to Friendly Terrace was silent and constrained. At Priscilla’s door Elaine faltered her thanks for a pleasant afternoon and Priscilla replied stiffly. As she went up the walk, Elaine turned to Peggy with unmistakable relief. "Is it too late for me to go home with you? There’s something I want to tell you where nobody’ll hear." "There’s all kinds of time. Father doesn’t get home to-night till quarter of seven." Peggy led the way into the house, evaded a categorical reply to her mother’s smiling inquiries if they had had a pleasant time, and conducted Elaine to her room, where she pulled forward the wicker rocker. "That’s the most easy-going chair in the whole room. Sit down and be comfortable. But, first, take off your coat. It’s so warm." Elaine obeyed automatically. "Peggy," she said as she took her seat, "you saw that woman looking at me so hard to-day?" "Yes," Peggy acknowledged, "I saw her." "And she said something, didn’t she, to the woman with her?" "She said she’d know you among a thousand, that’s all. And see here, Elaine. Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to, just because of that." Elaine put her hands to her head, with a gesture which wrung Peggy’s heart. "But I do want to tell. I’ve got to tell somebody. Sometimes--" her voice rose in a little cry--"Sometimes I’ve thought I’d go crazy, keeping it to myself." Peggy pulled up a chair and sat down. She was used to confidences. People of the stamp of Peggy Raymond must expect to be receptacles for the various woes of all sorts and conditions of people. But she realized that what Elaine had to tell was something out of the ordinary, and lost a fraction of her usual bright color. "I knew those women," Elaine explained, twisting her interlaced fingers. "But they didn’t know me. They thought I was my sister."