“Oh, would you?” She raised a trembling hand to her mouth and her eyes searched my face. “It’s not the fright you gave me,” she ventured at last, in a low tone, “it’s the—way you found me.” As I stepped to the decanter and poured her out a stiffish drink of whisky I reflected that this was coming to the point with a vengeance. The woman certainly had nerve and wits, for all her fright. I wondered what sort of a tale she could possibly give me. But she was equal to the occasion. “Well, what about the way I found you?” I smiled, as I handed her the drink. She drained the whisky at a gulp, and some of the color came back to her face. I took her arm and helped her to a chair, and although she hesitated for an instant and drew back, she sank into it finally and seemed grateful. The interview promised to be interesting. “You see,” she answered, “it’s an old story, really, and one of which I am terribly ashamed. That is why you startled me so.” “Don’t tell me if you’d rather not,” I answered gently. “Oh, but I must,” she insisted. “I must make you understand or I don’t know what you will think. You see, when I was a young girl I was very nervous. It is a failing that takes strange forms sometimes, as you probably know. With me it took the form of wanting to—wanting to—take—other people’s things—sometimes.” She dropped her eyes. “Kleptomania?” I ventured. She nodded. “I thought I had conquered it entirely,” she went on. “But finding myself alone, in here—the apartment so silent—and—and everything—brought it back, I’m afraid. So you found me picking over the things on your desk, hardly knowing what I did. But—I didn’t take anything!” she concluded piteously. “My dear lady,” I answered heartily, “I don’t care whether you did or not. You’re welcome to anything there is there,” I finished, laughing. She drew a long breath at that, looking at me closely the while, however. “Oh—you are—good to me!” she breathed. “But I knew that you would be.” She rose slowly to her feet and looked up into my face. “May I—may I go—now?” she finished pathetically. “But of course,” I answered, “if you must. But why go so soon? You haven’t told me why you came yet.” She walked slowly toward the door into the hall, and I followed a step or so behind her. But she did not answer until she had reached the front door and I had opened it for her. Her head was bent. “Can’t you guess?” she murmured. I took her hand gently and pressed it. “Then you must not go,” I urged. “Come back!” But she drew her hand away. “No, not now. You frightened me. I——” “Some other time perhaps?” I ventured. She rang for the elevator. We stood together in silence waiting for it. But just before the car reached my floor she looked up into my face. “Perhaps!” she murmured. If it was acting, like the rest, the glow in her eyes was the most consummate part of the whole performance.