"Not that I care for myself," she said, softening her nasal voice. "It's the poor thing I'm thinking of. She needs care and attention that I can't afford to give her, but if some of her friends would come across I could do for her as any one would wish to, the poor, beautiful young thing." "Of whom are you speaking?" asked Donald, rendered somewhat cautious, in spite of his keen desire to hear more. "Why, you know, of course, Mr. Morris. Who would I be speaking of to you like this? It's Miss Mary Blake I'm talking about, though I wasn't sure, myself, at first, and never would have known at all, if it hadn't been for that piece in the paper." "Mary! Miss Blake?" cried Donald, starting forward. "Do you mean to tell me you really know where she is?" "I certainly do, Mr. Morris," said the woman, confidently. "Why, she's been in my house for about a month now. She come the first of June, or a day or two before." "Mary!" muttered Donald to himself. "Here, all this time we've been looking--hunting the country over----" Aloud he said, eagerly: "And she's there now?" "She is that, Mr. Morris. I come straight from her." "Did she send you to me?" The question was anxious, but filled with wondering hope. "Well," said the woman, slightly evasive, "you can't exactly say she sent me. Not exactly. But she'll be all right when she sees you--I'm sure of that." "All right?" asked Donald, quickly. "What do you mean by 'all right'? Is she ill? Is anything the matter----" "Now, now, don't get excited, Mr. Morris," she interrupted, soothingly. "She's all right. She's well and comfortable. Just a little queer, maybe, but nothing to speak of, and when she sees you----" "But I don't understand----" Morris began, anxiously. "No, probably you don't, and I'd better tell you the whole story," said the woman, easily. "I'd better spill the whole dope, and then you'll see just how the land lays." Donald sank into a chair near by and the woman, leaning forward, spoke confidentially: