“Oh, Mrs. Adams, help me—protect me—won’t you? I don’t know what to do—I’m all alone—so alone—” She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Esther Adams was uncertain what course to pursue. Should she protect this guilty girl, of whom she really knew nothing, or should she dismiss her at once from her house, in the interests of her other boarders, who must be considered? Surely, her first duty was to the others—the people she had known so long, and who looked upon her house as a home and a safeguard. “You must go,” she said, though her voice wavered as she saw the pathetic face Anita raised to look at her. “Oh, no! Don’t send me away! Where could I go? Even the Inn people wouldn’t take me!” “Of course they wouldn’t! Go home! Haven’t you a home? Who are you, anyway? But I don’t care who you are—you must get out of this house today—this morning. Do you hear?” Meantime Miss Bascom, on her virtuous errand had trotted quickly to the office of the Prosecuting District Attorney. There, however, she was told that Mr. Cray was over at the Waring house, and she concluded to go there. Nor did this displease her. She longed to be in the limelight, and the tale she had to tell would surely give her the right to be there. Mrs. Peyton received her coldly, for the two were not friends. “I came to see Mr. Cray,” Miss Bascom announced, “on important business.” “Oh, very well,” the housekeeper returned, “take a seat and I’ll ask him to see you.” Miss Bascom waited in the living-room, secure in her knowledge of the importance of her news. The attorney welcomed her cordially for he saw at once that she brought news of value. And, expressed in emphatic language, and interspersed with many and unfavorable personal opinions, Liza Bascom told of the incident of finding the money and the ruby in Miss Austin’s bureau drawer. “Astonishing!” commented Cray. “Who is she?” “Nobody knows, that’s the queer part. We call her Miss Mystery.” “Where did she come from?” “Nobody knows. She just appeared.” “Don’t the Adamses know?” “No, they don’t.” “A young girl, you say?” “She appears to be very young—but you never can tell with those sly things. I daresay she makes herself look several years younger than she really is.” “Did she know Doctor Waring?” “How do I know? She came over to this house late Sunday night—for I saw her—” “Good heavens! Are you sure?” “Well, it was fairly light, with the moon, and the snow all over the ground, you know, and I saw her, all wrapped up in her fur coat, sneaking away from the house—” “How late?” “Oh—after everybody had gone upstairs and the lights were all out at the Adamses.” “You saw her come back?” “No; I didn’t think much about it at the time—she’s a crazy piece anyway—and—” “What do you mean by a crazy piece?” “Why, she’s queer—not like other folks. She won’t have anything to do with any of us over there—” “That doesn’t make her out crazy.”